The Science of Distraction
by JennaEf
Summary: Sherlock's and John's attemps of distracting each other... Or anybody else, for that matter. The series of one-shots. Disclamer: I own nothing.
1. I've Missed You

**Chapter One, in which John returns home and gets surprised by Sherlock in more than one way...**

**Beta: Pilikia18**

"Sherlock?" I ask cautiously, my voice sounding muffled. No wonder it does, really, because currently my face is pressed into my friend's coat, as he hugs me fiercely. "Sherlock, what happened?"

We are standing at the top of the stairs to our flat near the door to the living room. I just got home after the night shift and was planning to have a light snack and go to bed, but apparently my odd flatmate has other plans.

"Nothing," he says quietly. "I've missed you."

He was already standing at the top of the stairs, when I stumbled into our flat. Judging by the coat, scarf and gloves he obviously planned to go out for some reason, so I smiled at him tiredly and started up the stairs. He still waited silently, looking at me intently, which started to worry me a little, to be honest. Frowning, I finished climbing the stairs and seconds later found myself in Sherlock's embrace.

Sherlock is not exactly the touchy-feely type, so I was shocked a little by this turn of events. I carefully tried to pull away, but my companion was having none of that. He actually tightened his arms around me, and second later I felt his hand at the nape of my neck, steadily pushing my head forward, so finally my forehead rested against his shoulder. I simply had no other choice than give up and hug him back.

He's holding me firmly and steadily, and actually, it is quite pleasant. I even allow myself to relax slightly against him, and he supports my weight easily. I'm really tired – this night was quite complicated, there was a horrible car crash, three victims, severely traumatised, so I was in surgery for the entire shift.

"Bad night?" Sherlock asks suddenly, his voice sympathetic.

"You have no idea," I feel my eyelids drooping slightly, and squeeze my eyes shut in order to stay awake. But it is really hard, when your flatmate is so warm and comfortable…

"Hey," he's swatting lightly at the back of my head. "Don't you fall asleep on me, John, I have work to do."

"Then stop being so nice to me and let me go," I grumble.

He snorts and continues to hold me for a while. He smells very nice, actually – a mix of aftershave, coffee, and a bunch of other aromas I can't quite put my finger on. Very nice, and veery cooomfortable, indeed…

"John," there's a warning note in his voice now.

"Okay, okay," I attempt to pull away, and this time he lets me. I realise that I'm missing the warmth already, when my body shivers slightly, now bereft of its impromptu cocoon.

Sherlock turns away and goes down the stairs. Near the front door he turns around and looks at me.

"I'm really sorry, John," he says unexpectedly.

"Sorry for what, Sherlock?" I ask, perplexed.

"You'll see," he elaborates, and ten seconds later he's already gone.

Puzzled, I shake my head and open the living room door…

"Sherlock! Oh, for God's sake, not again!"


	2. Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

**Chapter Two, in which John does the cleaning, Sherlock tries to apologise and Mycroft makes an appearance.**

**Beta: Pilikia18**

With a heavy sigh, I fall on the sofa and survey the state of our living room with a critical eye. Whatever Sherlock has been experimenting on managed to somehow spread over every available surface; walls and floor included. The unidentifiable substance is extremely sticky and stinky, so I spend almost six hours attempting to get it off the armchairs and sofa, and literally scrubbing the floor. The wallpapers are definitely beyond repair, and I have to literally peel them off the walls. Despite the fact that I opened all the windows right at the beginning of my cleaning operation, the awful smell still lingers in the air, and I find myself cursing quietly under my breath. Typical Sherlock – messing everything up and just expecting it to resolve itself - and why shouldn't he, since I always manage to get everything sorted out? Good old John, always ready to help... Got to stop that someday.

Speaking of Sherlock – where the hell is he? Did he really expect to bribe me with that hug? If so, then he's obviously mistaken, because this time I'll definitely make him pay.

Speaking of the devil – my phone beeps with an incoming message.

**John, I'm really sorry**

**SH**

Oh, REALLY?

**Sorry doesn't cut it, Sherlock. ****Where are you?**

**JW**

Probably not going to work, but doesn't hurt to try, does it?

**Somewhere in London. Are you still angry with me?**

**SH**

Seriously? What gave me away?

**Why should I? ****I spent the entire day getting rid of your bloody slime. What could possibly be more exciting?**

**JW**

This time he answers immediately.

**Ah, yes, about that. Did you by any chance notice any changes in its density?**

**SH**

You've got to be kidding me!

**Why don't you check it for you****rself, Sherlock? I'm not the expert here.**

**JW**

Just you come home, Sherlock Holmes, I'll give you a perfect opportunity to appreciate those changes.

**Can't. Busy right now.**

**SH**

Thought so.

**I n****ever imagined you to have such a domestic talent, John.**

**MH**

Mycroft? What the hell?

**Spying again, Mr Holmes?**

**JW**

Why don't you deal with your overenthusiastic brother instead?

**Just Mycroft, please. Let's skip the formalities, shall we?**

**MH**

Skip the formalities, you said? Well, we'll see about that.

**In that case, may I ask you for a small favour, Mycroft?**

**JW**

Mycroft phones me right after that message, and I proceed to explain my idea to him. He finds it amusing and even participates in adding some finishing touches. Well, what can I say? Sometimes in the course of life, lessons should be taught and learnt.

Now all I have to do is bait the trap, so to speak.

**Seriously, Sherlock, when are you coming home?**

**JW**

Come on, Mycroft, time to start the show.

**Depends. Got a case.**

**SH**

As if. Well, maybe you are, but it's too late to stop now.

**Target acquired, proceeding to the next phase.**

**MH**

Sorry, Sherlock. You had it coming.

**WHAT THE HELL? JOHN!**

**SH**

Well, what can I say...

**Revenge is sweet, Sherlock.**

**JW**

* * *

Somewhere in the backstreets of London an unidentifiable black car pulled into a stop not far from a tall, dark-haired man, who was busy trying to pry open a window frame. The door of the car opened slowly, and a voice rang out.

"Sherlock, get in the car, now!"

The detective whirled around in shock.

"Mycroft? How the hell..," he hissed and then stopped abruptly, scowling. "He told you."

"No, he didn't. Surveillance, remember?"

"What do you want? I'm busy."

"Get in the car. Mummy's waiting."

* * *

My phone beeps again.

**You are going to pay for this, John.**

**SH**

Grinning, I quickly type an answer.

**I'm counting on it, Sherlock.**** Oh, BTW – Mrs Hudson promised to double your rent for this month.**

**JW**

Well, what can I say? I'm never bored...


	3. Let the Sleeping Dog Lie

**Chapter Three, in which Sherlock executes his revenge and John gets quite a scare.**

**Beta: Pilikia18**

It takes three hours for me to finally break free from my loving family. Not to mention the lecture I get from my dear mother. All things considered, it was a very low blow from John; I really didn't expect him to be so vindictive. Granted, I may have gone too far with my latest experiment, but we've been in similar situations before and always managed to talk our way through.

Not this time, obviously. Siding with Mycroft may have been a good option in John's opinion, but I just can't let it slip. A little demonstration is definitely in order – I'm not opting for something drastic, I'll just merely try to get my point across. 'Revenge is sweet' – that's what you said, isn't it, John? Well, we'll see about that. I think I have just the perfect thing on my mind right now.

Pulling it off will definitely require a thorough preparation but as John's guard will be up for awhile, I'll have plenty of time. And while I'm at it, I may as well try and get back into my flatmate's good books.

When I get home, John is in the living room, still trying to get the results of my unfortunate experiment under control. He glances at me briefly and I wince slightly, because he looks really tired. In fact, I think he's almost ready to drop on the spot.

"Tea?" I ask mildly.

"Not objecting, no. You took your time."

"Family business. Always takes longer than you think," I move into the kitchen and plug the kettle in.

"That's a pity. I could've really used your help with all this. But don't worry; I've left you the wallpapers. After all, it's only fair, don't you think?"

For the man who should be really mad at me, he looks amazingly calm and composed. Suspiciously calm and composed, even. Better be careful, just in case.

"Of course, I'll do it," I say nonchalantly, carefully pouring the hot water into the two cups.

"Good. Mrs Hudson has the spares, by the way, so no need to look for them anywhere."

"Well, it's settled, then. The tea is getting cold, by the way," I take a tentative sip, looking at John pointedly over the rim of my cup.

"Oh, okay," he stops doing whatever he's been doing and slowly walks towards the kitchen table. Grabbing his cup, he takes a mouthful, and then sighs blissfully. "Perfect. Thank you."

"You're welcome," I smile at him briefly…

And from this moment, the game begins. Everything is going smoothly. I'm behaving almost perfectly – so perfectly, that John starts looking at me curiously sometimes. Realising that, I manage to throw in a couple of decent shouting matches for a good measure – just to keep my usual appearance, so to speak. That seems to calm John, and I'm able to continue my little operation without fear of being discovered.

By the end of the week I have all necessary equipment delivered and hidden in my bedroom. Now all I need is to wait for the moment when John leaves for work. Then I will get everything set up by the time he gets home from his day's shift.

The opportunity presents itself on Monday. John leaves early in the morning, and I immediately start assembling my surprise. It requires the perfect positioning, and I end up spending almost the entire day just getting everything right. I barely finish rigging the light switch when I hear John's key turn in the lock. Hurriedly finishing my task and closing the living room door, I rush through the kitchen and hide in my bedroom. While pulling on my coat and weaving the scarf around my neck, I try to hear what's happening outside.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you in?" John calls out, and I hear his footsteps on the stairs. I picture him opening the living room door and flipping on the light switch…

John's scream almost makes the blood freeze in my veins – I never would have imagined him being capable of reaching THAT note. I can't blame him, though – when the giant flaming dog leaps at you from the darkness, you ought to be scared, even if the beast is just a holographic one.

It takes almost a full minute for John to recover, and then I hear him bounding across our kitchen towards my bedroom with a murderous sounding "Sherlock!" I hadn't locked my door, so I hastily make my escape through the window. To tell the truth, I'm very much counting on my second surprise which should definitely be a total shock for John: currently my bed is made up with bed sheets which are adorned with a pink violin print.

By the way, getting that particular set proved to be the hardest part of my plan…

**A/N: I wish to thank Cyberbutterfly for giving me such a wonderful suggestion for this series. And thank you all for the reviews, they were really inspiring. Don't worry, it's only the beginning…**


	4. Silver Lining

**Chapter Four, in which John plots his payback and a war is anounced.**

**Beta: Pilikia18**

PINK violins…

Well, this is something new.

I'm standing in the centre of Sherlock's bedroom, still trying to catch my breath, and being absolutely unable to tear my eyes from my flatmate's bed. Yes, I know that Sherlock is a bit… eccentric, but that's just downright HILARIOUS. Even for him. How the hell did his brilliant mind manage to come up with THIS?

A sudden gust of cold wind bursts into the room through the open window, bringing me out of my trance and making me shiver. Crossing the room, I close and lock the window. If Sherlock decides to come back, he ought to use the front door, instead of sneaking inside like a thief. And besides, we definitely have a few topics to discuss.

Speaking of which: I still need to get rid of Sherlock's 'surprise' in the living room, and restore the light switch. That bloody dog gave me quite a scare; I wouldn't be surprised to find new grey hairs in my head tomorrow. Heck, I'm amazed that my head didn't turn grey the moment I saw that monster.

Okay, time to get the job done. First of all, I need a flashlight and a toolkit. And then definitely a hot shower, because after all that excitement – and I'm talking not only about the events at the flat – I think I deserve an equal compensation. Actually, I think I'll make that a shower and a dinner in front of a telly. And a can of beer, of course.

So, the three-part plan: repair, cook, rest. Come on, John, the sooner you'll begin, the quicker you'll get to the pleasant part…

About an hour and a half later I'm sitting on the sofa, watching a game show and thinking about a way to get even with Sherlock. After all, it was he who started everything in the first place, mind you. And while he definitely made me sweat, I've rather enjoyed our competition. His round was over; now it's my turn to come up with something. And I think I already know what it might be…

Sherlock returns home two days later, in the middle of the night, and freezes at the threshold of the living room, seeing me sitting on the sofa and waiting for him.

"Hello, Sherlock," I smile at him warmly. "Mind telling me where have you been?"

He gets himself under control surprisingly fast. "Hello, John," his smile is equally warm. "I've been busy."

"I can see that," I abandon the sofa and make my way into the kitchen, feeling Sherlock's gaze on me all the time. "Doing what, exactly?" I plug the kettle on.

"Solving a case," my flatmate moves towards his armchair and falls into it, sighing dramatically. "I'm tired."

"Well, in that case I can recommend a cup of herbal tea, a hot shower and a good night's sleep," I say amiably.

"Thank you, doctor. I will gladly follow your orders," Sherlock visibly relaxes, no doubt thinking that the worst is over and he is completely safe. Well, if only he knew…

Two days were quite enough for me to do an extensive research on the chosen subject. And thoroughly prepare my answering trick. And – what a coincidence – it actually involves a hot shower and, to be more specific, a sponge.

Keeping my cool, I bring a cup of tea and a biscuits to Sherlock, and he accepts my offer gratefully. We chat a little, while he enjoys his cuppa, and after that comes the moment when he goes into his room to prepare for his shower. It's time for me to retreat into my room as well, and wait for my plan to unfold.

It turns out that the waiting stage is not long, because exactly ten minutes later I hear Sherlock's panicked cry from the bathroom, and two minutes after that he bangs on my door frantically.

"Come in," I call out calmly.

The door is immediately thrown open, and Sherlock emerges in the doorway, wearing only a towel around his waist. He doesn't seem to be able to breathe properly while desperately trying to express his concern. "John, something… is very… wrong… with me… I have…"

I take a good look at him and start giggling. Why, you ask me? That's simple, really. Because currently my friend's body is covered in an intricate pattern of black smudges, stains and stripes. ALL OF IT, in fact; including his face.

He is obviously taken aback by my reaction and frowns slightly, sending me into paroxysm of laughter. Of course it's a dead giveaway and Sherlock narrows his eyes suspiciously. "John?"

"Silver nitrate," I blurt out, still shaking, tears streaming from my eyes.

If looks could kill, I think I would've already been incinerated on the spot, because Sherlock's eyes are positively blazing right now. "You..," he hisses menacingly.

"Sorry, so sorry," I wipe the tears from my face. "But I just couldn't resist, Sherlock."

"This means war, John," he deadpans and slams the door shut. But a second later he opens it again and sticks his head inside, a demonic grin on his face. "You'd better watch your back from now on, Doctor Watson," and the door is slammed shut once again.

Watch my back, Sherlock? Well, we'll see about that. And by the way, did you really think I wouldn't notice that familiar spark of excitement in your eyes? Go on, conjure your dreadful plans. But we both know what I've given you.

Another chance to stop being bored.

So, bring it on, Sherlock. I'll be waiting.


	5. Lay Me Down to Sleep

**Chapter Five, in which Sherlock tries to help John and things get messed up.**

**Beta: Pilikia18  
**

**A/N: this was supposed to be light and funny. But Sherlock in my head downright refused to comply. So it came out a bit angsty and jumbled, sorry for that. Anyway, hope you'll like it…**

Do you actually know how long it takes for smudges of silver nitrate to disappear from your skin? Well, I can tell you exactly. A WEEK. A whole week of sitting home, gradually getting edgy and unsuccessfully trying to solve a case without seeing the whole evidence. Granted, John fetched the case files for me, but sometimes you just have to see everything with your own eyes to make the final connection. And I was literally robbed of that possibility by my vengeful so-called friend.

And, to make things worse, said friend was having tremendous regrets and constantly tried to 'make it up' to me. Considering the state I was in, it only added insult to injury. My patience was rapidly wearing thin, and John, sensing the impending confrontation, honestly tried to smooth things out but unfortunately push had already come to shove. I don't exactly remember, what tipped me off – it all happened incredibly fast. One minute we were sitting in the living room, chatting about something – and the next moment I was throwing things around and yelling at him to get the hell out of the flat and NEVER even try to return.

He was really scared, I could tell. I've seen it in his eyes – the fear, the pain and the agonizing disbelief. He kept glancing back over his shoulder on his way to the door, obviously hoping that at any moment I would change my mind, turning everything into a joke.

But I didn't. I watched him go with a cold, unwavering expression on my face. It was like I'd suddenly slipped into the twilight zone and got swapped with some cold-hearted creature, who didn't give a damn about John's feelings. And I couldn't do a damn thing about it. The rage boiled inside me, threatening to break through my carefully constructed walls, and it took every ounce of my willpower to keep it locked away.

When it finally passed, I felt weak and helpless. The struggle for control sapped my strength completely, and I spent nearly an hour just lying on the sofa and staring at the ceiling.

I was almost back to normal, when I heard a key turning slowly in the lock downstairs. The front door opened and closed quietly, and footsteps sounded on the stairs – uncertain and careful.

"John?" I called out lazily.

The footsteps stopped. "Sherlock?" my flatmate answered warily.

"You can drop the conspiracy act, it's perfectly safe to come in now," I said amiably, sitting up on the sofa.

John finally appeared in the doorway, watching me suspiciously. "I'm not entirely sure that the storm has passed, you know," he said defensively.

I shrugged my shoulders slightly. "Sorry about that. But frankly, it's entirely your fault. You're the one who got me confined here."

John went from uncertain to defensive in two seconds, his hands on his hips and his eyes blazing. "Yeah? Well, let me remind you..."

I waved my hand dismissively, cutting him off. "Seriously, John, you're too easy to bait. I'm kidding. Relax."

My friend huffed indignantly, throwing his hands up in the air and muttering something under his breath. Then he sighed long-sufferingly and moved into the kitchen to make us some tea. This round was over, and, what matters the most, I managed to trick my contestant into believing that he is safe. Now was the best time to start plotting my revenge...

* * *

For awhile, I wasn't completely sure about the course of action for my payback. Right up until the moment when John started to complain insistently, saying that he had enough of this crazy lifestyle, that he's tired and that his personal life keeps going straight to hell.

All that sort of made something click in my mind, and I came up with a simple and elegant solution. To tell the truth, John's current relationship definitely was rapidly moving towards its end. His woman – Laura, if I remember correctly – was obviously cheating on him. But he'd chosen to ignore it, and that puzzled me the most. It was pointless, useless and irrational, and it needed to be brought to an end for both our sakes, because it had started to seriously affect our work and friendship.

John definitely needed the opportunity to relax and get himself out of that mess. And I knew exactly how to make that happen. My plan included two stages: first – acquire the desired medicine, and second – choose the right time to act. The first stage was really a cakewalk, taking into account my vast network of right people in the right places. But the second stage… It had really cost me plenty.

Day after day I'd watched my closest friend work himself into total exhaustion. But I needed him to reach the breaking point, to lose it completely. You may call me cruel and heartless, but believe me – you really need to hit bottom before you'll start getting better. And I knew perfectly well that the results of my cunning plan could be disastrous: John walking away, leaving me without a backward glance, and never returning. But still, I was willing to take that risk.

Finally, I had the chance to act five days later. It was the day when John decided to confront Laura about their future. The previous evening he'd returned home in a bad mood, edgy and irritated – so it was obvious they'd had an argument. When I enquired about it, he snapped and told me to mind my own business. I had chosen not to acknowledge that obvious insult and suggested that we should calm down and try to talk it over in the morning. John grudgingly agreed, and we bid each other good night.

The morning came, and we met in the kitchen for breakfast. After that we moved into the living room to talk. John sat in his favourite armchair and I walked towards the sofa, touching his shoulder in passing and managing to inject him with the acquired muscle relaxant. He jerked slightly, feeling the pinprick of the needle, and looked at me in surprise.

"What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?" my friend snapped, rubbing his shoulder.

"Helping you relax and getting rid of your problem," I smiled at him sweetly. "When you don't show up today, she'll dump you. Case solved."

The relaxant started to take its toll, because John unsuccessfully tried to get up, swayed a little and fell back into his chair. Betrayed by his own body, he glared daggers at me. "I hate you," he managed weakly.

"I know. But it's for your own good," I said calmly. "You needed rest and your relationship is a total mess. I merely helped you out."

"You… had no… right..," he was having trouble getting the words out. "My decision…"

His words had unexpectedly hit me like a sledgehammer. Things had gotten out of control suddenly, and this wasn't a funny game anymore. It was John's life I'd taken as a liberty to bow and bend at my own will. And my brilliant revenge plan had turned into nothing more than a major screw up.

John was still trying to move, to overcome the effects of the drug on sheer willpower but he obviously was losing the battle. Before he finally gave up and let his consciousness slip away, he smiled at me and mouthed 'You're going to pay, Sherlock'. Then his eyes closed and he drifted into sleep…

It wasn't funny. It was awkward, unfair and selfish. And John surely will make me regret it. But in some twisted way it had felt as the right thing to do, because – and let's face it – I did it all for John's benefit.

Not to mention that I saw the understanding and relief in my friend's eyes just before he fell asleep.

Our revenge campaign was far from over. But whatever happens, we still will be able to find a way to work things out between us. Why, you may ask me?

The answer is simple, really: because we can. And we both know that.


	6. Damage Control

**Chapter Six, in which John gets Lestrade and his lot involved, and Sherlock is deadly surprised.**

**Beta: Pilikia18  
**

The first thing that I realise as I slowly emerge from the depth of sleep is that I'm not in the armchair anymore. There is a soft pillow under my head, and I'm covered with a blanket, so Sherlock must have somehow gotten me onto the sofa. Nice of him, but it still doesn't excuse his previous actions.

Speaking of which... I don't know exactly what drug he used to knock me out, so I'm not completely sure that there aren't going to be side effects. Truth be told, I have been doused with muscle relaxants several times in my life, and not all of them were completely successful. For example, there was a time when I lost my voice for a week. And, of course, the incident which led to temporary paralysis for two days – it scared me shitless, to be honest.

Bearing all that in mind, I proceed to test my limbs cautiously, one after another. When all appears to be functioning properly, I try to open my eyes.

"Your faith in my abilities is positively heart warming, John," Sherlock comments sarcastically from somewhere behind me.

Taken completely by surprise, I twist around to face my companion, nearly falling off the sofa in the process. Seeing that, Sherlock immediately throws away the book he had been reading, surges forward and manages to catch me in the nick of time, pushing me back onto the sofa. After that he reclaims his armchair in one fluid motion and picks up his book.

"Well, no offense, Sherlock, but I can't exactly recall the fact of you ever mentioning that you have proper medical training. Considering that, I have a reason to be worried, don't you think?"

So my voice is definitely working too. What a relief.

The muscle under Sherlock's left eye twitches slightly, but apart from that my friend's facial expression remains unchanged. He slowly opens his book, flips through it and finally fixes his gaze on the desired page. "I thought it was obvious that I've never had intentions of causing you any damage, John. And I don't understand why you seem to think that I'd made an exception this time."

"Well, I was actually kind of hoping that you didn't, Sherlock. It's just… A negative past experience, you know…"

Another imperceptible twitch and he turns the page over. "I have seen your medical files, John, don't worry."

Strangely, my friend's obviously provocative announcement fails to cause any reaction in me, and I remain calm and relaxed. "Courtesy of your brother and his oh so helpful diary, I presume?"

A look of annoyance briefly crosses my flatmate's face. "I think you already know that I have my own sources of information."

I just can't let it slip. "What, you'd bothered to come so far as bribing my physicians? ALL of them?"

Obviously sensing my desire to turn our conversation into a joke, Sherlock allows a smile to tug at the corners of his lips slightly. Then the serious expression returns to his face once again. "No. I simply have the right people in the right places, John."

Alright, I can do serious too. "And again, you had no right whatsoever, Sherlock. I know that the concept of privacy and personal information means nothing to you, but I have to warn you. That was the last time I let you interfere with my personal life. Your next attempt will result in us parting company."

It's only when the last word leaves my mouth as the realisation of everything I had just said finally hits me. And it really comes as a complete surprise for both of us, judging by my total inability to utter a word and the fact that Sherlock's eyebrows almost join his hairline.

He is the first to regain his composure. "Really impressive, John. I will endeavour to keep that in mind."

"You damn well should, Sherlock, because this time I'm definitely not joking."

"Neither am I, John," Sherlock closes his book and places it on the coffee table. "Are you hungry?"

Trust Sherlock to swiftly change the subject, when he's not inclined to continue the conversation, and choose the right question, by the way. "Starving, actually. Any suggestions?"

"Two, so far. Depends on how you're feeling right now."

"Well, I think that going out would be marvellous. I definitely need some air."

Sherlock nods, gets his mobile out of his pocket, and fires off a quick text. A minute later he receives an answering message, smiles in satisfaction and springs up from his armchair. "Then it's time for you to get dressed. I have booked us a table at "Silk". Hurry up, John."

"Silk" is a top-notch place, so I guess it's The Suit time. And I think I have one in my wardrobe that would match Sherlock's favourite velvet attire perfectly…

Ten minutes later we meet at the front door, and Sherlock gives me a quite long onceover.

"Quite fashionable, John," he praises finally, buttoning his coat and fitting his gloves to his slender fingers. "I'm impressed."

"Noblesse oblige, Sherlock," I reply, pulling on my leather jacket.

Noticing another new piece of my clothing, Sherlock briefly raises his eyebrows. "You never cease to amaze me, Doctor Watson. Shall we?"

Playing along, I give a courteous nod. "Of course, Mister Holmes. Would you be so kind to lead the way?"

"Of course, my dear Watson," Sherlock opens the front door with a flourish, and we leave the flat, both chuckling quietly.

The status quo is restored for now, and Sherlock obviously feels quite safe - which means that from now on I can start thinking about a way to pay him back. And, considering the fact that Sherlock deemed it acceptable to interfere with my personal life, I think it's only fair if I mess a little with his. And I don't mean a relationship, because I seriously doubt that he is capable of having one – at least the normal kind. Oh no, my plan is a little more sophisticated, and it will definitely require outside assistance.

And I just happen to have the name of the ideal person for that on my mind right now…

* * *

"So let me get this straight," Lestrade says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms on his chest. "You want me and my team to be VERY friendly with Sherlock?"

"Precisely."

The DI picks up his pen and starts tapping it on the arm of his chair. "Can I ask why?"

"Let's just say that I need your help to repay a debt."

Lestrade's dark eyes spark with interest. "Did Sherlock finally manage to get to you, then?"

I smile slightly. "Let me keep my secrets, Inspector," I answer evasively.

"Alright, Doctor," Lestrade finally agrees after a couple of minutes of thoughtful silence. "But can I ask your permission to add some touches to your plan?"

"Of course, be my guest."

"Then it's settled," Lestrade announces, and presses a button on his intercom. "Anderson, Donovan, I need you both in my office ASAP."

"I should leave now, Inspector," I say, getting up from my chair. "I'll keep in touch."

"And I'll keep you posted, Doctor," Lestrade nods politely and proceeds to accompany me to the door.

I pass Anderson and Donovan on my way out and soon enough hear Sally's incredulous 'You want us to do WHAT, sir?' Smiling slightly, I leave the department…

* * *

Lestrade proves to be very ingenious, I must admit.

Two days later Sherlock gets a call from the detective inspector – we're being summoned to the crime scene. And as soon as we get there, my payback plan starts to unfold.

The first act is played out perfectly by Anderson, who shocks Sherlock by calling him 'Mister Holmes' and asking his advice on some on-going case. The expression of mild disbelief on my friend's face is amusing, and I simply can't wait to see what would happen next.

The next part turns out to be Sally's. She goes as far as actually patting Sherlock on his back amiably and calling him by his name. The consulting detective's face gradually assumes a slightly haunted expression, and he tries to shy away from Agent Donovan. She lets him go, and he gives a sigh of relief, turning around…

… And immediately finding himself in Lestrade's crushing embrace. At first Sherlock stands absolutely still, and then slowly turns his head in my direction. He looks positively dazed and can't even utter a word. I shrug my shoulders and manage to look equally surprised. Lestrade winks at me and finally lets go of Sherlock.

My friend stumbles back and immediately shifts closer to me, trying to put as much distance between Lestrade and himself as possible. The DI smiles sweetly and takes a step forward. Sherlock immediately takes a step back, opting to hide behind me. I remain rooted to my spot, watching them with curiosity. Step forward – step back; it looks almost like a dance, until Sherlock finds his back pressed against the wall.

And right at that moment my mobile goes off, as it was planned. I take the call and excuse myself, saying something about an emergency at the clinic. And then – still according our plan – I rush out, leaving the stunned Sherlock alone with Lestrade and his gang…

* * *

An hour later, while I'm blissfully relaxing in my chair in the living room, I get a call from the Detective Inspector.

"Sherlock is on his way to Baker Street," Lestrade announces breathlessly. "And I sent a video on your e-mail. Oh, and I have to warn you, Sherlock is not quite himself right now."

"Not quite?"

"Just watch the video, Doctor," and Lestrade hangs up.

I log onto my account, open Lestrade's message and click on the link. The video comes up on the screen, and I watch with slight amusement as the supposed corpse – a big muscular guy with a knife in his chest – suddenly comes back from the dead and actually snogs Sherlock. My friend emits a chocked gasp, struggling feebly in strong arms, and then promptly passes out.

I can clearly imagine how odd it all felt for Sherlock. Granted, from an outsider's viewpoint it looks really funny. I've got my revenge; but at the same time, I feel guilty for shocking Sherlock.

"Well done, John," the object of my concern whispers right into my ear, causing me to jerk in surprise. "And perfectly played," Sherlock's arm sneaks around my neck from behind, squeezing slightly, "You can have your triumph… for now. But I have to warn you – it's far from over, my friend. Now it's my turn, I believe."

My flatmate tightens his arm around my neck for a few moments, and then releases his chokehold, causing me to gasp for air frantically. Straightening up, Sherlock turns away and goes to the sofa, moving with almost feline grace, as always. Getting there, he assumes his favourite position in one fluid motion and closes his eyes.

"Tea, John," he demands nonchalantly, blindly picking up the violin from its case on the floor.

"Of course, Sherlock," I put my laptop aside, get up and go into the kitchen to switch the kettle on.

My friend shifts on the sofa, getting into a half-sitting position, and raises his violin. The magnificent sounds of Bach's Concert in A Minor fill the room, and I feel myself starting to get slightly drowsy. I manage to fill the cups and bring them to the living room, and Sherlock continues playing until I practically fall into my chair, my eyes closing on their own volition. Then the music ends abruptly with a screeching noise, and I jerk awake. Sherlock grins at me and reaches for his cup.

There's one thing for sure that Sherlock can't be accused of: being predictable. Hardly ever, if you ask me. And that's fine with me, by the way. Makes life certainly more interesting.


	7. The Best Policy

**Chapter Seven, in which Sherlock discovers that honesty is not always the best policy.**

**Beta: Pilikia18  
**

John really upped the ante this time. All our previous jokes were strictly home or, in case of Mycroft's participation, family based. By dragging Lestrade and his team into our 'entertainment' John brought it out in the open, and therefore untied my hands, so to speak.

It has been a week since the "not quite a crime scene" incident, and casting my mind back to those events I have to admit that John's and Lestrade's joint effort was quite… ingenious. I can't say that I appreciated it right away – I was somehow busy being dazed and shell-shocked. But now, when my judgement isn't affected, I find myself honestly admiring the beautiful simplicity of it.

And Lestrade obviously had his share of fun getting Sally and Anderson to play friends with me. I can just imagine their faces…

Lestrade's hug was kind of… nice, though. I have known him for five years, and he was the closest thing to a friend I had before John appeared in my life. Don't get me wrong, he still is, but John sort of has a more… shall I say… privileged position. But it doesn't mean that I'm not going to get back at them both for this. They were opting for affection and honesty – well, I think I know the way of giving it to them in full measure…

* * *

A week of treading upon eggshells passed, and finally John decided to set things straight between us. I had waited patiently for him to bring that subject up, all the while trying to behave as if nothing happened; and it really bothered him, I could tell. Unlike the first time, he hadn't tried to apologise right away, but he was extremely courteous and understanding. I didn't mind being the object of all that attention; more than that, I even tried to reciprocate by temporarily abandoning my habit of playing the violin in the middle of the night. That wasn't easy for me, by the way, because I had a case – a real murder this time – and my violin would've helped to speed up the process significantly. But I was willing to sacrifice my work in favour of John's peace of mind.

As I was saying, John lasted exactly for a week. So I wasn't at all surprised to find him in the kitchen the next morning after the week had ended.

"Sherlock, we need to talk," he said with determination. He was leaning on a counter, arms crossed on his chest.

I plugged the kettle in and placed two slices of bread in the toaster. "About what?"

John automatically went to the fridge for the butter dish. "About the recent events involving the fake corpse."

"What about them? Could you also get eggs and bacon while you are there?" I asked with perfect calm.

"Okay, point taken," my friend chuckled. "Eat first, talk later. Milk?"

"And jam," I supplied, smiling slightly, and we went about the routine of preparing our breakfast together.

I knew that we needed to discuss those events. But the truth is I just wasn't in the mood to do it right now. And I knew another thing as well – when John didn't have breakfast first thing in the morning, he tended to be - how shall I phrase it – a tad restive. I had learned that titbit of information right at the beginning of our flat sharing. Mindless of John's habits, I attempted to drag him out to crime scenes early in the morning a few times, barely giving him time to dress. He went with me, albeit grudgingly; but soon I had found myself at the receiving end of John H. Watson's 'bad mood special'. It took that one occurence for me to draw a conclusion of 'hungry John equals angry John', and then it became the golden rule for both of us to have breakfast together as often as our schedules concurred. John still worked shifts at the clinic, and there were days when we met on the stairs in the process of me leaving and him returning or vice versa.

But today we both stayed at home – John had a day off, and I was coming down from the usual rush of a successfully solved case. You see, when a case is solved, I tend to spend a whole day simply lying on the sofa: sleeping, reading and playing the violin – per John's request, by the way. He used to pester me about the necessity of rest quite insistently at the beginning, and finally I gave up trying to resist his demands. It actually turned out that he was right after all – and soon I found myself quite enjoying those blissful moments, especially when John lounged in his favourite chair near me, reading or typing up something in his blog.

"Sherlock, are you listening?" my friend's voice jerked me back to the reality, and I focused on him, seeing the questioning look in his eyes.

"Sorry, you were saying?" I enquired, not even attempting to hide the fact of my absentmindedness.

John smiled at me mischievously. "I was just wondering what fate befalls this toast."

I glanced down and discovered that I was holding toast in one hand and a knife in the other.

"And your breakfast is getting cold, by the way," John continued, buttering his own toast.

I smiled back at him and proceeded to get with the program…

* * *

When the breakfast was finished and the dishes put away, we moved into the living room to sit in the armchairs across from each other. John started to speak, but I cut him off, raising my hand.

"I think I know what you are about to say, John," I began confidently. "And I can assure you that it isn't necessary. To tell the truth, I really appreciated your idea, it was… entertaining, to say the least. So give yourself a rest, there are no hard feelings on my part at all."

John frowned slightly. "Are you sure? Because I had the impression…"

"Of course I'm sure," I interrupted swiftly. "I simply needed some time to adjust. You had really managed to surprise me. And, by the way, sorry for the attempt to strangle you, I was a bit… overreacting."

I smirked inwardly, seeing the astonished look on his face. Bet he didn't see this coming.

"It's… okay, that's perfectly understandable," he managed finally. "So, no hard feelings?"

"Absolutely," I nodded, hiding a wicked smile. Child's play. He took the bait right away without any suspicion, despite of me acting so out of character that it should've been obvious for anyone.

"Good," he said with relief. "Glad to hear that. And… sorry anyway."

I shot him a stern look.

"Okay, point taken," he laughed quietly. "What's the plan for today?"

"Depends on your intentions," I announced. "I'm pretty much ready to go with the flow, if you have any interesting ideas."

"Actually I was thinking about spending a quiet day at home," he answered almost apologetically, briefly glancing away.

"Good idea," I agreed easily, causing his eyes to focus again on my face. "If you don't mind some violin playing, of course."

"No, not at all," he hastened to reassure, but the confusion was clear on his face. Finally, after a slight pause, he decided to voice it. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

"Yes, why I shouldn't be?"

"No reason," he answered automatically, and I could clearly see him giving up his attempts to figure it out. He was still confused though, and a strange expression flickered on and off in his thoughtful gaze; but soon he got a hold of himself and smiled at me broadly. "A quiet day in, then?"

"Precisely," I answered, and picked up my violin…

* * *

Another week passed, and I started preparing the means for my revenge, exercising extreme caution. My plan was again based on some chemical – force of habit and preference, I guess – but this time the desired serum was not so easy to acquire. It took a generous amount of bribing and a covert illegal sneaking into the lab of some government facility for me to get hold of the small vial. Predictably, an improvised 'drug's bust' occurred in our flat the next day, executed by a group of not so talkative people in civilian clothes which brought no results whatsoever, and was followed almost immediately by my brother's visit. For the half an hour we proceeded to stare each other down and exchange some witty remarks; after that, Mycroft left, obviously not pleased with me – again. I was pretty sure that he knew exactly that I was doing in that lab; more than that, he undoubtedly had all the evidence, but for various reasons preferred not to mention it.

Now all I needed to do was to wait till the moment when Lestrade would summon me to a crime scene, because this time I was planning to include him and his team into my scenario. After all, he and John were putting so much effort into… ahem… entertaining me, that plainly it would've been impolite not to return the favour.

A case came up exactly two days later. Basically it was a simple carjacking incident which had turned into something more serious the moment a corpse was found in the car's boot. Lestrade's call came early in the morning, and I made the effort to prepare a quick breakfast while John was getting ready in the loo. That gave me enough time to slip the serum into John's food, which I laid out for him. The rest was easy – I just needed to keep on my poker face.

John came into the kitchen, looking fresh and dressed for going out, and stopped short, seeing me at the table.

"Come on, John, no time to waste," I said impatiently when my flatmate appeared to be seemingly rooted to the spot. "We have a case to solve, remember?"

John eyed the food with suspicion. "You're amazingly generous today. Where's the catch? And, by the way, why aren't you dressed yourself?"

"I was simply saving time. Alright, here's the plan: I go get dressed while you eat and then we're leaving. Deal?"

"Does that mean you're not going to eat?" my friend clarified with the hint of exasperation in his voice.

"I had toast," I lied effortlessly. "I'll meet you at the front door in ten minutes. Bon appetite!" with that I was up and out of the kitchen in a flash, and therefore prevented John's rebuff.

Ten minutes later John was waiting for me at the door as I had told him to. I pulled my coat on, casting a quick glance at my partner. John was methodically buttoning up his jacket, and I could clearly see that his eyes were slightly unfocussed, which meant only one thing – the serum was already taking effect. Unfortunately, that also meant that time was unavoidably running out, and I was forced to grab John's sleeve and practically drag him outside. There I flagged down the cab, pushed John inside – he actually giggled slightly at that moment, got in after him, barked the address and we sped off.

When we finally got to our destination, John was literally having a nap, with his head on my shoulder and his arms locked around me. I elbowed my friend unceremoniously to wake him up.

"Ow!" he muttered sleepily, pulling away slightly. "Do you really need to be such a bastard every bloody time, Sherlock? I had a wonderful dream…"

It was working like a charm. Now I simply needed to get this show on the road.

"Yeah, sorry about that, but we have work to do. Now out you go, John. Lestrade's already waiting for us."

"He's great, you know," John announced, peeling himself off me. "Not as good as you, of course, but still…"

"I know, John. Get going," I nudged him towards the door, noticing with satisfaction that Anderson and Donovan, after the brief conversation with Lestrade, were walking in the direction of our cab. It looked like my plan was going to take less time than I thought.

John stumbled out of the car, giggled, righted himself and focused his attention on the pair of coppers before him. I chose to stay slightly behind him, and Donovan, noticing that, decided to comment; but she was cut away by John, who raised his index finger, then pointed it at her.

"Not a word, you hear me?" he said warningly. "And, by the way, I HATE fishing. As for you," he glared at Anderson, "Grow a beard, for God sake!"

Anderson sputtered in indignation, and John narrowed his eyes. "On the other hand, she" he jerked his finger in Sally's direction, "might not appreciate it."

Right after that John abruptly whirled around, not paying attention to the stunned pair anymore, took a few steps in my direction, stopped beside me, turned again and placed his arm around my shoulders. I glanced at him, saw a twinkle in his eyes and allowed him to tow me along towards Lestrade. The DI raised his eyebrows, but chose not to comment.

"Good morning, Inspector," my flatmate said quite loudly, causing me to flinch slightly at the harsh sound. "Here we are, Sherlock for you to tolerate and me to smooth the ruffled feathers, so to speak."

Lestrade's expression stayed neutral, apart from the slight twitching of his lips. "Morning, gentlemen. He's all yours."

John's hand slid down onto the small of my back and delivered a tangible push, sending me to stumble forward. "You heard the man, Sherly. Go play with your favourite toy of the day."

This was definitely getting out of hand with every passing moment, and I rounded on my oh-so-honest assistant, prepared to give him a piece of my mind. But I never got the chance, because in the next second John shifted his attention to someone else.

"Oh no, not you again!" my friend said dramatically, launching himself forward. I followed his gaze and saw my brother getting out of his car. John reached him in a few wavering steps and grabbed Mycroft by the lapels of his suit – more in attempt to steady himself then to intimidate my older brother, I might add. "What, you didn't get enough excitement from watching your people turn our flat upside down? Lestrade I can understand, because Sherlock tends to withhold the evidence…"

"John," I interrupted warningly.

"Shut up, Sherlock, I'm sort of busy here for the moment," John retorted calmly, and tightened his hold on my brother. "But what's in it for you, pray tell?"

To my utter astonishment, Mycroft hadn't made even the slightest attempt to dislodge John's hands from his suit. On the contrary – and that was actually quite a shock for me – he dropped his umbrella and slid his arms around John. In the next moment John's head fell forward and he slumped heavily against my brother. Mycroft adjusted his grip and locked his eyes with me. "Not the best of your ideas, Sherlock," he shook his head in disapproval. "Help me get him into the car. Oh, and by the way, Detective Inspector, it's not your case anymore," he threw coldly in Lestrade's direction. "My men will be here shortly. You can go back to your daily work…"

* * *

Well, there's only one small detail left for me to tell you. We got home half an hour later, basically dragging John, who was still irresponsive, into the flat, and getting him onto the sofa with some effort on our part. After that I went into the kitchen to prepare some tea – and found John's breakfast on the kitchen table, almost untouched.

"Got you all good, haven't I?" John's voice sounded right behind me, and I whirled around to see him smiling at me wickedly and Mycroft standing with his hand on my flatmate's shoulder.

For a moment, I stared at them with incomprehension. Then everything clicked and the world started turning again. "So what did I steal?"

"Nothing strategically important, Sherlock," my brother twirled his umbrella with his right hand, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners with a ghost of a smile. "I couldn't let you harm the good old Doctor Watson, could I?"

John cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Sherlock, I…"

"Don't, John," I smiled mischievously. "Let's chalk it up to you having one over me. And that, my dear friend, means that the next move in our little game remains to be mine, don't you think?"

John nodded in agreement.

"Good. Mycroft?"

"Don't try dragging me into this, Sherlock," my brother warned, removing his hand from John's shoulder. "I'm not going to press charges about you breaking into the lab, but I'm keeping the evidence. Try to bear that in mind the next time," with that, he turned to leave. "Have a nice day, both of you."

When the front door closed behind Mycroft, I took a step forward, bringing myself face to face with John.

"Grow a beard?" I asked, a grin spreading out on my face.

"Lame, huh?" my flatmate shook his head, looking embarrassed. "Sorry, couldn't find anything better to say," then a broad smile appeared on his face. "Sherly."

I cuffed him lightly. "Don't you dare, John Watson, or you're going to regret it."

"Am I?" he winked at me, smile turning into a full-blown grin.

"Definitely. Tea?"

"Not yours, certainly. Oh, and by the way, what were you hoping to steal?"

"Asks the man who managed to fool everyone by displaying the effects of the truth drug perfectly," I remarked fondly, and suddenly it hit me… again. "So you and Mycroft…"

"Well, if you count the fact of Mycroft telling me the name of the substance as participating, than yes, me and Mycroft."

"Next time I'll do my best to really surprise you, John. I swear," I promised abruptly, not willing to get into a conversation which involved my dearest brother.

John, bless his soul, easily let it slip. "I'm looking forward to it, Sherlock. Surprise me."

"Deal. So, about that tea…"

"I'll do it. But you're going to take care of that food because now I'm DEFINITELY not going to eat that. Especially because Mycroft managed to keep his secrets, if you hadn't noticed," and John moved to plug the kettle on, clearly signalling that the conversation is over and I should also get straight to business.

Good old Doctor Watson… My brother was actually right all along, there's more to you than meets the eye. And, if I'm very lucky, there's a chance for me to see the whole picture one day.

And that's the thought which can make one's life worth living.

Mine – definitely.


	8. Timeo Danaos et Dona Ferentes

**Chapter Eight, in which crisps and international politics are involved.**

**Beta: Pilikia18  
**

**A/N: the name of the chapter is actually Latin; it's a quote taken from Virgil's "Aeneid". It means "Beware of Greeks bearing gifts". Also, a huge THANK YOU to HiM'e'iTSu – she gave me an interesting idea for this chapter. Enjoy! Oh, and reviews are always welcome ;)**

Despite the fact that I had managed to sort of outsmart Sherlock twice, he acts like nothing has happened – except maybe the small instance of his refusal to take me with him on cases for the entire week. Can't say that I'm disappointed, though – it's quite a relief to have a short reprieve from our usually hushed life. I'm actually between jobs now; so I allow myself the luxuries of sleeping in, eating decent food and simply relaxing without the necessity to rush out of the house at short notice.

Sherlock is absent most of the time, but during those brief moments when he chooses to drop in, I make sure to feed him properly. The first couple of days he pretends to be thoroughly offended by my pestering. But that charade doesn't last long, and on the third day I find myself roused in the wee hours of the morning by Sherlock, who practically demands his breakfast.

In spite of my strong desire to continue sleeping, I drag myself out of bed and make my way to the kitchen. As Sherlock had decided to follow my advice I may as well use that opportunity to the fullest extent.

And since that moment, Sherlock starts to extend his demands gradually, which in the end leads to me preparing breakfast, lunch and dinner for my flatmate for the rest of the week. But still, I stay excluded from the ongoing investigation – till the seventh day, that is.

It's the middle of the night when Sherlock bursts into my room, practically pushes me out of bed and orders me to dress quickly. And after that we proceed to chase the suspect across what feels like half of London, finally cornering him in some narrow backstreet. By that moment Lestrade manages to catch up with us and Sherlock generously allows the Detective Inspector to cuff the criminal.

"Glad to see you again, Doctor Watson," Lestrade says, turning to me after the moment the suspect safely bundled off in a police car. "What kept you away for so long?"

Sherlock's arm brushes against mine at that moment, and I glance at him briefly. There's an almost imperceptible change in his expression, which for me reads clearly as 'Keep your mouth shut'.

"Well, the job was quite taxing this week," I lie effortlessly. "Hadn't left me any strength to accompany Sherlock as usual. And he was generous enough to let me rest properly."

"Well, that's good to hear," the Detective Inspector smiles warmly, but I can still see a question in his eyes; a question which he'd never ask if I didn't prompt him. Or I can explain everything myself, I guess.

"Actually, Inspector, I wanted to apologise," I begin, causing Lestrade to look at me with curiosity. "For the previous time. I wasn't exactly myself but an unfortunate consequence of Sherlock's experiment," I say calmly, feeling a sharp jab of my flatmate's elbow into my side.

"Yeah, I guessed," there's a twinkle of mischief in Lestrade's eyes. "Anderson was practically fuming all the way back to the Yard. You'd managed to get him good."

"You make it sound like praise, Inspector," I try to object. "I'm really not proud of what I did back then."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Doctor," Lestrade smiles at me warmly. "You did well, actually."

"Thank you," I answer simply, deciding not to object.

"Likewise. And I really need to be going now, so see you soon. Have a good night. Or what's left of it, at least."

"Will do. Good night, Inspector," I call out, watching as he turns and goes to his car. He gives a small wave and gets in, starting the engine.

"Hungry?" Sherlock enquires, and I turn to face him. He's standing slightly behind me, hands stuffed into his coat's pockets.

"Now that you ask – yes, I suppose. Any ideas?"

My friend's face lights up with a smile. "Actually, yes. If you're not opposed to trying something new, of course."

So, my 'punishment' had ended, evidently. Good. "Well, only if it's not illegal, Sherlock. I'd hate to bother Lestrade with the necessity of catching us breaking into someone's property for the purpose of having a breakfast."

For a moment, an expression of utter astonishment flickers on Sherlock's face, all too soon being replaced with the perfect calm again. "Interesting," he remarks casually. "And what exactly gave you that sort of idea, pray tell?"

"Oh, mostly your current obsession with chocolate-covered peanut butter crisps. The ones that you keep sneaking out of your brother's house. By the way, is that the payback for him not allowing you to steal the real serum?"

My flatmate narrows his eyes. "Somebody has been gossiping again, I see."

"Merely enquiring. His PA dropped by and saw all those neat coloured boxes that you'd left piled up on our living room table. Mycroft's initials on them were a huge giveaway, you know."

"I was simply doing him a favour," Sherlock snorts, his eyes softening slightly. "When it comes to the subject of food, my brother is utterly incapable of sticking with his diet for long periods of time."

"That's still not a reason to steal his sweets, Sherlock."

"Always the diplomat, John," my friend says teasingly. "Well, back to our flat then, I guess?"

"Good choice. And I think I have a perfect idea for our breakfast, actually..."

* * *

The breakfast is postponed significantly due to the fact of Sherlock falling asleep in the taxi. I shake him awake when the car finally stops across the front door to our flat; but as we stumble up the stairs to our living room, I couldn't help but notice my friend's vacant expression. So I make a wise decision of getting him straight to the sofa, on which he manages to fall asleep almost immediately.

With Sherlock sleeping soundly on the sofa I'm left with no other choice than getting into my bedroom and trying to catch some shuteye too. Which I proceed to do, setting the alarm clock at 10 A.M. beforehand; that would give me almost four hours of sleep – quite enough, taking into account the fact that I had three hours before our mad chase. Unsurprisingly, I fall asleep even before my head hits the pillow...

…and wake up with the intense feeling of being watched. My alarm hasn't gone off yet, and I'm stubbornly trying my best to stay asleep; although, not for long.

"John," Sherlock calls quietly from somewhere on my left. Must be my couch. "John, I know that you're awake."

Not opening my eyes, I turn onto my left side obediently. "Yes, Sherlock, I'm listening."

"I sent the boxes back. All of them," my friend declares cryptically.

"Boxes? What boxes?" I ask in confusion, and then it dawns on me. "Oh, those boxes! When?"

"An hour ago."

That statement forces me to open my eyes and look at the clock. It reads 7 A.M. "You're absolutely and officially nuts, Sherlock. And what crimes did the delivery service commit against you to deserve such a punishment?"

"Don't make me into a monster, John. Of course it's going to be a delayed delivery," Sherlock snorts, and I reach out to flick the bedside lamp on – I'm wide awake and there's no point of staying in darkness now.

"That's nice of you," I look at him pointedly. "What have you done with them, pray tell?"

My friend manages to look offended. "Nothing. Why are you always assuming the worst, John?"

"Can't help it, knowing you, Sherlock. So... really nothing?"

"I'm not going to waste the precious time proving my innocence to you, John," Sherlock says with irritation, getting up from the coach. "How about breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry yet. You're in a hurry?"

"Actually, yes. I'm planning to have breakfast and head out. You're not going to keep me company, I suppose?"

"Sorry, Sherlock, you're on your own today," I answer resolutely. "I need to search for a job."

"As you wish," my friend says indifferently. "See you in the evening, then."

"Right," and I switch the light off, signalling that the conversation is over. Sherlock huffs and leaves the room, slamming the door quite forcefully. I close my eyes and soon fall asleep...

* * *

Sherlock keeps his promise, and I spend the whole day in solitude, trying hard to actually keep mine by the way of checking the papers and looking online for a suitable job. There are a couple of options that catch my eye, and I note them down with purpose of looking at them properly later. It takes me only fifteen minutes to do that, and then I am left with the necessity to find something to occupy my time with. So I tidy the kitchen, watch telly, update my blog - basically I'm doing anything to stop the small voice at the back of my mind which reminds me persistently that Sherlock DID offer me a chance to go with him, and therefore stop the boredom. Unsurprisingly, that voice sounds exactly like Sherlock's...

It's 5 P.M. when I finally decide to give up and phone Sherlock, only to be interrupted by the knock at the front door. Wondering who it might be, I go downstairs and open the door cautiously, only to be greeted with the sight of an extremely irritated Mycroft Holmes.

"Sherlock hasn't returned yet?" he asks without preamble, fixing me with the piercing stare.

"Not to my knowledge," I answer, not at all put out by his attempt to intimidate me. "You need to see him, I suppose? Do come in."

He nods briefly and pushes past me, ascending the stairs and disappearing into the living room in a blink of an eye. I had never seen him so... wired, so it must be really bad. Which brings an obvious question: just what exactly did Sherlock manage to do that got his brother all strung out?

Shaking my head, I turn around and go upstairs into the kitchen, plugging the kettle in and glancing briefly in the direction of the living room. Mycroft had taken up Sherlock's chair, sitting ramrod straight and tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair impatiently.

"Is something wrong, Mycroft?" I enquire carefully, placing two bags of herbal tea into cups and waiting for the kettle to boil.

"Yes," the politician says curtly. "And regrettably, there are going to be consequences, John, so I apologise for my actions in advance. But I need you to follow my directions without questioning them this time."

That throws me for the moment. "I'm sorry, what..."

"Later," the older Holmes interrupts, silencing me with the impatient wave of his hand, and a moment later I hear the front door opening. Mycroft gestures for me to keep silent, and waits for Sherlock to appear in the living room.

The kettle boils, and I switch it off. No time for tea now, obviously.

My flatmate ascends the stairs in a few leaps, bursts into the room and instantly freezes at the sight of his brother. Then he turns around and takes a step towards the stairs.

"Sherlock Sherringford Holmes!" Mycroft booms, causing Sherlock to jerk in surprise. "Stay where you are!"

And he's not the one surprised here. "Sherringford?" I enquire dumbfoundly.

"Sherlock's middle name," Mycroft explains briefly. "Good evening, brother dear."

"Good evening, Mycroft," Sherlock turns around again and casually strolls to the sofa. "What brings you by?"

"Actually I came to congratulate you, Sherlock," the elder Holmes says calmly. "Your little surprise worked exceptionally well. Silencing a whole room during the signing of a vitally important treaty... This is definitely a record."

Sherlock frowns. "But I thought..."

"Doesn't matter," Mycroft interrupts resolutely. "You're out of London for a week. Pack your bag. And John goes with you, of course. My apologies again, John."

"Oh, it's nothing," I say, trying to sound carefree. "But may I ask where we are supposed to be going?"

"Sherlock would be glad to tell you while you're on your way. Hurry, gentlemen, the car is waiting. And don't even think about running away, Sherlock; it's absolutely impossible."

That earns Mycroft a quite stern look from his younger brother. "I know how to lose my battles, Mycroft. You don't need to worry."

A sudden thought makes me chuckle quietly. "So, we have a three-fold score now? Welcome to the club, Mycroft."

That gets me two equally amused expressions.

"Very good, John," Sherlock finally praises. "And that means I still have my move then. Thanks, Mycroft."

"Not at all," the older Holmes smiles slightly. "Now get going, please."

With that, he rises from the chair and leaves the room unhurriedly. We glance at each other then Sherlock winks at me, jumps up from the sofa and hurries into his room.

A week outside of London. Yep, this is going to be fun...


	9. The Safe House Day One

**Chapter Nine, in which Sherlock and John find themselves inside a strange house.**

**Beta: Pilikia18  
**

**John's POV**

I go upstairs into my room a moment after Sherlock disappears into his, already making a list of things I would need to take with me on this impromptu journey. Mycroft refused to mention where exactly are we going; but at least he gave us the exact timeframe – a week. And that means I have to pack carefully in order to be prepared for anything that might occur during our 'vacation'.

Right. So what I will need?

A suitcase, obviously. Two or three changes of clothes – different kinds, just to be sure. Socks and underwear – that goes without saying. The small toilet bag, which is currently residing on a shelf in the loo. The first-aid kit – just in case. My laptop. That seems to be all.

By the time I return to the living room, dragging the suitcase behind me, Sherlock is already waiting for me on the sofa, coat and scarf on, his suitcase resting near the sofa and a briefcase in his hands. My friend looks me over and nods approvingly.

"Good choice, John," he says in regard of my dark-blue jeans and a matching cable-knit jumper. "So, are we ready?"

"Absolutely," I drop my leather jacket, which is folded over my arm, into my armchair, then pick it up and start to pull it on. "Any idea as to where are we going?"

"Not the slightest," Sherlock jumps up from the sofa and grabs the handle of his suitcase.

I frown. "But Mycroft said…"

"I know what he said, John," my flatmate interrupts with irritation. "He was mocking me; this is his payback for my little escapade. But I can tell you one thing, John: Mycroft is setting the rules this time, so expect the unexpected and be prepared for everything."

"A bit of unnecessary advice, Sherlock," I remark, and the tall genius scoffs at me, strolling towards the stairs. I grin in return and follow him downstairs.

There's a car parked outside – silver this time – with its engine humming quietly. Sherlock starts walking towards it and I turn back to lock the front door, therefore completely missing the events that happen next.

I hear Sherlock's sudden gasp of surprise and whirl around only to see my friend hitting the ground and trying to pull something out of his neck. A split-second later I feel a sharp stab of pain in my own neck, and my hand flies up to discover a small dart sticking out of it. I clumsily pull it out and lean against the door, feeling as if all the muscles in my body have suddenly been replaced with rubber. My mind briefly registers the moment I slide down the door to the ground, and then nothing…

* * *

**Sherlock's POV**

The first thing I feel as I regain consciousness is a headache – obviously it's a side effect of the chemical we were injected with. The headache is not strong, but it slows my mind, and that's extremely annoying – especially because I have no idea where I am at the moment. All I know is that there's a pillow under my head, a blanket is tucked around me and, judging by the smell of leather and a soft surface under me, I'm laying on a sofa somewhere.

Time to do a reality check, definitely.

The first thing I see when I open my eyes is John, sleeping soundly on a sofa across from me. It's a reddish-brown leather sofa, with padded armrests and three square leather pillows as the seat. It's nice and comfy and identical to the one I'm lying on.

Rising into a sitting position, I glance around. We are in a sitting room – a small one, judging by the size and the few pieces of furniture – mostly tables of various sizes, four of which are flanking the sofas. There are a few sealed boxes in the corner to the left of my sofa, and I make a mental note to investigate it later. Three other tables are under covers, although I'm not so sure about the one in the corner – it looks like it's a cabinet after all. There's a microwave on it, which is unusual for a sitting room, but now that small detail is irrelevant, simply because... there's a large safe near the wall, with a T-shaped keyhole and a red light above the safe's door.

A challenge for me, no doubt.

There's a note on the table to the left, and I snatch it up, recognising my brother's handwriting instantly.

**Have a nice week, Sherlock.**

**A clue for you: Duncan W. Adams.**

The name tugs at my memory, pulling up the corresponding piece of information, saved on my hard drive on some occasion. Duncan W. Adams, oil king, eccentric billionaire, interested in safes of all kinds...

Oh.

A quiet moan from John draws my attention, and I look at my friend as he slowly sits up and lowers his legs onto the floor.

"Sherlock?" he calls out, not opening his eyes and rubbing his temples slowly – a clear indication of a headache.

"I'm here, John," I answer quietly, not willing to worsen John's condition. "And we're in the safe house."

John gives a slight nod of understanding. "Mycroft's?"

"Not exactly. Duncan W. Adams', more precisely."

"Whose?" John blinks his eyes open, a frown creasing his forehead.

"Duncan W. Adams," I repeat softly. "Mycroft's long-time associate."

"Oh. Right," my flatmate says, as if it's the most logical explanation. "And what are we doing here?"

"Solving puzzles, John. Literally," I get another nod. "This house is full of safes of all kinds. And, knowing my dear brother, the front door key is inside the last one of them. We have a week to find and open it."

"Okay," John agrees without debate, shifting into his 'action' mode – alert and ready for anything. "What's the plan?"

"Oh, just look around and see what you'll stumble upon, alright?"

"Of course. How about food and our suitcases?" John asks, spotting the microwave on the cabinet in the corner.

"Don't know yet. I think we need to check other rooms and those boxes," I say, and John immediately spurs into action, disappearing from the room in the blink of an eye. I take a deep breath to clear my mind and shift into a sitting position, waiting for John to return with new information. My headache is almost gone, but I'm feeling slightly dizzy, so I decide to stay on the sofa a little longer.

John reappears a moment later, crosses the room and goes through the door on the left.

"Well, this is interesting," he says a second later. "Sherlock, can you come here for a moment? I think I know what to do, but... just in case I'm wrong."

"What about our suitcases?" I call out, cautiously standing up and checking my pockets. "By the way, John, where's your phone?"

"Haven't found them and the phone's missing. But there's a backpack and a writing pad in the hall."

"And?"

"Just wanted to let you know," John says simply. "Are you coming?"

The room spins slightly in front of my eyes as I make a first step, and it takes a few seconds for me to regain my composure and to continue moving.

I join my friend in the room which looks like a small corridor, and discover the first puzzle in a form of a small safe. It has twelve colour gems on the front: six black, two green, two red and two blue, mounted onto three moving interlocked rings. Near the rings are six buttons with corresponding coloured arrows on them.

It's an easy one, and I give a slight nod. "I'm sure you'll do fine, John. Are there any others?"

"There's a digital lock in the hall, we need a combination."

"How many digits?" I nudge John towards the safe.

"Four," he studies the layout intently, and starts pressing the buttons.

"I'm going to have a look at that digital lock, see if I can crack it," I announce, pivoting on my heels and making my way into the hall.

"You do realise that there could be a thousands of possible combinations, right?" John throws over his shoulder, still pressing buttons.

"Ten thousand, to be precise," I answer calmly. "Do you have any other suggestions?"

A dinging sound echoes around the small available space, and John hums in satisfaction.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he calls out, catching up with me in the hall and showing me a piece of paper and a small resistor. "I guess that's exactly the reason why we need the backpack. It's certainly not the last piece."

"Agreed," I take a slip of paper from his hand. "4298. Let's try it."

The keypad clicks softly under my fingertips, and four digits appear on the small screen. There's another 'ding', and the double doors start to open slowly, revealing an impressive looking winter garden with a white marble fountain in the centre. The fountain is dry and one of its four plugs is missing, but there's a key floating in the tall glass flower-shaped reservoir in the centre.

John takes a step forward, intending to get the key, but I reach out in time and grab his arm, stopping him.

"No cheating, John," I declare firmly. "It's another puzzle, but there's a part missing for now. Let's leave it for later."

He turns to me, catching my gaze and holding it for a few moments, then nods. "As you wish, Sherlock. Left or right, then?"

The room behind the double doors on the right is brightly lit – I can see it through the glass panels in the upper parts of the doors. The opposite one, in contrast, is decorated in red, so my choice is definitely the right one – it looks spacious and less boring. I cross the winter garden and push the doors open, beckoning for John to follow.

This is a museum of sorts, with a few showcases near the walls, a strange contraption in the middle and a big steel safe in the far corner. John immediately goes to the door near the safe and opens it, discovering a passage into a small corridor behind it, and I make my way towards the safe.

It's a more sophisticated one, with a scrambled pattern on the door which looks like a dollar sign. Luckily for me, I had a case involving a similar safe once – it took almost an hour for me to open it, mostly because I wasn't sure about the pattern. This time it should be much quicker.

* * *

**John's POV**

Well, this Duncan Adams is certainly not a poor man, judging by the part of his house we've already seen. Granted, the hall, the small sitting room, and the corridor with the first safe were fairly standard ones, but the winter garden… It's an entirely different story, if you'd ask me.

It is two stores high, with a steel and glass roof and outward wall giving a spectacular view of a well-tended garden and a pool with clear blue water. Add numerous tropical plants scattered around the room and a marble fountain in the centre – and you have the full picture.

The fountain is a puzzle in itself, it seems, because there's a key floating inside. I almost make a mistake, stepping forward in order to snatch it, but Sherlock stops me, explaining that we should play by the rules.

When I turn to look at him, there's a familiar spark in his eyes – the one he always has when his task is Mycroft-related. Sibling rivalry is back in full force, and it means that there's nothing I can do except to tag along and to assist Sherlock to the best of my ability. Having decided, I ask for direction and then follow my companion as he makes his way through the doors on the right.

The interior of this room is simple – some sort of a museum, but a fairly small one. I have a strong suspicion that the real purpose of the room has something to do with the strange mechanism in the centre and the massive safe in the corner. There are two other doors in this room: one opens into a small office, and the other – into the small corridor, where we were not long ago.

Sherlock, of course, immediately gravitates towards the safe and scrutinizes it intently.

"John, fetch me a chair, please," he says finally, tracing a strange pattern on the safe's door with his fingertips. "This may take a while."

I spot a chair on the right and drag it over. "What is it, if I may ask?"

"Some sort of a sliding puzzle. The tiles are divided into squares two by two, and these small buttons in the centre of each square swap the tiles clockwise," my friend explains, pressing one of the buttons. With a soft 'click' the tiles begin to dip and slide, changing their position.

"And you know that because..," I prompt as the other button is pressed.

"I had an encounter with the similar one before," Sherlock waits for the tiles to stop and presses the same button.

"Obviously," I shift from foot to foot and place my hand on the back of the chair, causing Sherlock to look at me briefly. "Can I ask you something?"

He turns his attention back to the safe, pressing another button. "Yes."

"Who is this Duncan Adams, Sherlock?"

"It's a long story, John," my friend pauses, finger hovering over the next button. "One I can't spare the time to tell right now. I need to finish this first, and I'd really appreciate if you'd busy yourself with the task of checking the other rooms."

Sherlock's tone is calm and polite, but the message is loud and clear: 'Shut up and go away.'

My brief visit to the office results in a discovery of another digital lock with some of its interior parts missing. There's also a strange device with 16 buttons – 15 of them are decorated with one, two or even three arrows pointing in different directions, and the last button is red and blocked by small sliding glass plate. Above the keyboard is a pictogram of a red sun, and there's a circular outlet with a lens on top of the device – some sort of a laser, perhaps? Considering two refracting plates mounted near the ceiling just above the strange device here, and a globe on the other side of the office, my assumption seems to be correct.

The positioning of refracting plates, however, is clearly wrong, because they are turned parallel to the wall. This way the laser – or whatever it is – is going to hit the ceiling without any effect. Glancing around, I notice the chair and drag it over to the device in order to reach the first plate. But unfortunately, my height is not enough even if I'm standing on the chair, and that means…

"Sherlock, I need your help here," I call out cautiously, preparing to be rebuffed, and therefore getting the mother of all surprises when my friend appears by my side in the next moment.

"What's the matter, John?" he asks, his grey-blue eyes taking in the interior of the office in one sweep.

"I think I know what this one is about," I point to the device, then gesture towards the ceiling. "But I need your help with the repositioning of these plates."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, smirking gleefully. "Really, John?"

Oh, here we go. Another 'smarter than you, taller than you' argument. His bloody arrogance is bottomless.

"And what happened to you not liking me repeating things?" I shoot back, my hands taking accustomed position on my hips.

My friend tilts his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "Always so easy to provoke. I thought you should've been used to my ways by now, John. Apparently, it isn't so. Alright, I'll take care of your _little_ problem if you'll fetch the writing pad for me. I need to take some notes first."

Still bristling, I take the writing pad out of the backpack I'm now carrying, and thrust it into Sherlock hands. "Be my guest."

He closes his eyes for a few seconds then hastily writes down a row of numbers. It takes him a mere moment, and after that he's already standing on the chair and turning the refractor to the right angle.

"Start working, John," he commands, dragging the chair across the room. "What about that panel near the door, by the way?"

"Some pieces missing, but we already have one of them," I reply, studying the layout of buttons. "I bet the other parts are around here somewhere."

"Definitely," Sherlock jumps down from the chair. "Is that all?"

"Not exactly," I press the first button, and then another. Both of them stay down, so I'm obviously doing the right thing. "How about having something to eat?"

"I can't spare the time for this now, John," Sherlock retorts. "I need to think, and digestion slows me down; you should know that by now."

"Don't make me start that 'you need to eat and you need to sleep' lecture again, Sherlock. You are going to have dinner by the end of the day, and you are going to sleep the whole night. Is that understood?"

My voice is quiet and firm – the exact tone I had perfected for dealing with that sort of situation – and it has Sherlock straightening his back and nodding hastily.

"Yes, John," he replies in a placating voice. "I'll do that. But for now…"

"Off you go," I agree, and he's out of the room in a flash.

I shake my head and press another button – the wrong one this time, because two previous one immediately return to 'un-pressed' position. Okay so there's definitely an order in which this buttons should be pressed, and it has something to do with the arrows, but how…

Suddenly there's a sound of a heavy metal door opening, and right after that Sherlock emits a short cry of triumph.

"John, come here!" he calls with fervour. "You need to see this!"

I move away from the device and return to the museum, joining Sherlock near the safe. It has two compartments inside; a single sheet of paper in the top one, and the lever in the bottom one.

"L equals E," Sherlock reads, and then puts the paper in my backpack. "A clue for later, I think."

"Guess so," I agree, eyeing the lever. "So?"

"Let's try it," my friend says with determination and flips the lever down.

There's a strange noise behind us, and we turn around to discover three stands with flickering screens rising up from under the floor. As soon as everything stops moving, Sherlock starts to examine the screens with curiosity, moving around the room from one to another.

"It's a set of puzzles, John," he declares, finishing with the last one. "The one near the safe requires a code, and we don't have it yet, so let's leave it for now. This one," he points at the screen in front of him, "has four symbols of currency in a grid of four by four. And the last one is simply a combination of black squares with the exception of a white one in the top left corner. But what's the logic..."

I wait for a few moments, observing as his pale eyes flicker over the mysterious grid, and then...

"Oh," he says quietly, and starts touching the screen in a series of quick jabs. "Sudoku. I should've seen it from the start."

A few moments later there's a sound of something moving under the floor, and the central part of the mechanism extends towards the ceiling. Only now I notice the circular opening in the ceiling, closed with the three-blade iris diaphragm.

"We'll know what it is when we get to the second floor, John," Sherlock remarks, moving to the screen with black-and-white squares.

"Right," I turn towards the office. "I think I should return to my previous task."

"Good luck," my friend says absentmindedly, his brows furrowed in concentration over the matter at hand.

I nod and make my way to the keypad. So, the arrows are significant, but how exactly?

Suddenly it dawns on me – the symbols are actually directions for where to press next. Of course, how could I be so stupid not to notice it right away?

Tracing the path with my index finger, I find the first button. After that it's the matter of seconds to press the rest of them in quick succession, including the red one. A ray of laser shoots up from the device, gets reflected by plates and opens the globe, revealing a transistor inside. I stroll to the globe, retrieve the small detail carefully and join Sherlock in the museum.

Judging by the victorious expression on his face and the speed with which he's hitting the screen, he finally has it figured out. The red light on top of the screen changes into green and the next part of the mechanism is revealed, thus making two thirds of the metal column visible.

Without a word, Sherlock turns around and leaves the room, crossing the winter garden and pushing the opposite doors open. Then he stops and glances at me over his shoulder.

"What was inside that globe, John?" he enquires, shifting his gaze briefly to the glass wall of the winter garden. The sun is already beginning its descent, and that means we are going to start making arrangements about the food and sleep quite soon. By 'we' I mean me, of course.

"Another part of the broken digital lock," I answer. "And before you ask, there are two still missing."

Sherlock contemplates the information for a moment. "I think we should find those two parts and then call it a night. Agreed?"

"It's not like we have a choice on that matter, Sherlock, especially with your determination to win. So the answer is yes."

"Good," Sherlock disappears into a newly opened room. "Do keep up, John, if you're planning on having dinner and coaxing me to sleep anytime soon!"

* * *

**Sherlock's POV**

This one looks like a main sitting room – simply because it's bigger than the one we woke up in, and it has more furniture and two wall-length bookshelves. All of that, however, is irrelevant, because there's only one thing in this room worth of interest – a small safe with cipher disks. There are four dials with numbers at the top, two cipher disks with letters in the middle and a strange meaningless text on the lower end.

"They look like the cipher disk the confederates were using during the Civil War," John says thoughtfully, and I turn to face him.

"And you know that because..," I prompt, intrigued by this piece of information.

"I read, Sherlock," he says defensively. "I'm not as smart as you are, but I know enough to be useful even to you."

There's a guarded look in his eyes and he squared his shoulders, so it's obviously The Talk time again.

"I didn't doubt you," I point out simply, holding his gaze. "And I know that there's more to you then you choose to show to others. You are special to me, John. It's just... You never cease to amaze me."

He averts his gaze, pretending to study the safe, and I see a slight blush creeping onto his cheeks. "You're welcome, Sherlock."

Driven by a sudden urge, I reach out and squeeze his shoulder slightly, then turn back to the safe. "I think 'L equals E' is connected to this somehow. What if I do this..?"

I adjust the dials so the two letters are lined up, and then study the text on the bottom.

"It's a cipher," John muses. "The letters at the bottom have the corresponding pairs on the disks."

"Get the writing pad, I left it in the museum," I say, making connections between the letters. "There are two possibilities; I need you to write them down."

John disappears and reappears again in thirty seconds flat, and I start to spell combinations as soon as he makes it back into the room.

"Okay, the first one: GBGXMPHLXOXGHGX."

"That's rubbish," John comments. "The other one?"

"Agreed. NINETWOSEVENONE."

"Not any better. Unless..," he shows me the second cipher. "Is it just me, or…"

"It's not just you," I take a pen from his hand and divide the cipher onto four words. "They are numbers for those dials above."

I make a quick job of adjusting the dials, and the door opens, revealing another missing piece from the lock – an 8 pin circuit and a photograph.

"Three down, one to go," John comments, placing the items into his backpack. "The next room, I guess?"

"Certainly," I agree, and we cross the threshold of a study. Completely ignoring the interior of the room, I zero on the next two puzzles – an electronic lock (another one – it borders on an unhealthy obsession, in my opinion) and a magnet operated game with a goal of getting a metallic ball into one of three holes. The lock, however, requires a pass card to be inserted, and as we definitely don't have it for now, my task in this room is pretty simple.

"John, you can start to conjure our well-deserved dinner," I remark, coming into a stop in front of the magnet box. "This won't take too long."

"Alright," my friend agrees enthusiastically. "I'll be waiting for you in the small sitting room."

"Pick out some books while you're at it," I call after him. "There's not much to tell about Duncan Adams, and I would like something to occupy my mind afterwards."

"Will do!" John calls back, and after that it's just me and a puzzle trying to intimidate each other.

I defeat the puzzle by trial and error, and return to the small sitting room, clutching my prize – the last piece of the electronic lock. John's expression as he sees it is a reward in itself, and I can't wipe the smug grin from my face as he places the 4 pin circuit into his backpack. He winks at me conspiratorially and gestures towards the table.

"The dinner is served, Sherlock," he says proudly. "And I managed to find some interesting books for you. I hope you'll like it."

I look at the table in astonishment. We have tea, some biscuits, toasts with jam and even chocolate. Incredible.

"Okay. How in the world..," I begin, only to be interrupted by smug-looking John.

"The boxes here and in the hall. I found a lot of things in them," he explains. "Mycroft's idea, I think. But I'm really looking forward to getting to the kitchen. And the bathroom, of course."

"I'm sure we'll find them tomorrow. And Mycroft can be useful sometimes," I say, sitting down and reaching for my tea and some toast, "especially when he's the one who got us there in a first place."

John grins. "I might be wrong, Sherlock, but I think you have a few wires crossed about this. The crisps, remember?"

I shoot him a scorching glare. "I'm not discussing this."

"Of course," he shrugs, reaching out for the mug and scooping up a couple of biscuits. "I'm not expecting you to. But I expect to hear about Duncan Adams, though."

"In a few moments," I concede, wolfing down my toast and snatching up a handful of chocolates.

"Take your time, I'm not in a hurry," John remarks, finishing his dinner and stretching out blissfully on the sofa.

Time passes away in complete silence for the next few minutes, and when I finally turn down the lights and make myself comfortable on the sofa opposite of John's, preparing to tell the story of Duncan's and Mycroft's long-time acquaintance, I discover that John has already fallen asleep.

I can't blame him – the day has been eventful to the point of overflowing, and John actually solved two puzzles all by himself, and assisted me with the cipher, so I believe we can call it a good result. Humming in satisfaction, I close my eyes and allow myself to drift away, lulled by John's quiet snoring…

**The house is actually based on the computer game developed by Adventure Company - with the necessary ajustments, of course. No copyright infringement is intended. More days are to come!**


	10. The Safe House Day Two

**Chapter Ten, in which the adventure in the Safe House continues.  
**

**Beta: Pilikia18  
**

**John's POV**

When I wake up, roused by the sunlight slithering through the crack between the curtains, the opposite sofa is already vacant. No surprise here – the house is too fascinating for Sherlock to waste his time sleeping. Can't blame him for that – those few safes we already saw and cracked were really interesting.

The only downside of Sherlock's enthusiasm with solving each and every puzzle in this house is his usual disregard of his body's needs. The backpack, which I left on the table near my sofa in the evening is missing, so I can safely assume that my friend has already opened the door in the office – the one with the incomplete digital lock.

Speaking about the body's needs – I finally become aware of... ahem... the nature's call and sit up, swinging my legs onto the floor. Deciding that the breakfast can bloody well wait until I sort myself out, I spring up from the sofa and head to the office. Considering that yesterday during our explorations we haven't spotted a loo or a bathroom – at least, not in an accessible part of the house – I find myself hoping that Sherlock has already found it.

When I get to the office a couple of minutes later, I discover that the room behind the door with the digital lock is in fact some sort of a workshop, and it has three safes: two small ones on the worktable at the left, and one mounted into the far wall.

So, three safes to play with, and Sherlock is preoccupied with only one of them – the one in the far corner on the left. He's sitting in front of it, carefully pressing the buttons and making notes in the writing pad.

"Good morning, John," he says thoughtfully, not turning around. "The door that you are looking for is to the right of the built-in safe."

I locate the door immediately and cross the room towards it. "Thanks, Sherlock, and good morning to you too. See you in a couple of minutes."

He hums in reply and jots something down, before pressing the next button and repeating the process once again. Pulling the door open, I step inside a small loo and close the door behind me.

* * *

**Sherlock's POV**

My sleep during the night is restless and fitful: this house conceals too many interesting things, and wasting my time on sleep is totally ridiculous. It takes five hours of tossing and turning on the sofa for me to finally give up and, carefully raising to my feet, I reach out and retrieve the backpack from the table near the opposite sofa. My friend stirs slightly and murmurs something, and I stop in my tracks, afraid to wake him up.

A few moments later John rolls over and settles again, burrowing deeper into his pillow and pulling the blanket tighter around himself. I wait a little more, clutching the backpack to my chest, and then tiptoe out of the room and into the small corridor. It's only when I get into the museum that I finally drop my conspiracy act and continue into the office, not fearing to disturb my resting companion.

John had already pried the cover of the electronic lock open, so all I need to do now is put missing pieces of equipment into their respective places.

So, what do we have here?

Unzipping the backpack, I fish for small items and arrange it on my left palm. Then I pick up the resistor and plug it into the empty slot next to the other two vertical resistors. The transistor goes to the left of the yellow round one, and after that I connect the remaining two circuits.

As soon as I finish, the lock beeps shortly and the door starts opening, revealing the workshop behind it. Stepping inside, I look around with curiosity, locating three safes in different places and a door in the far right corner of the room, on the right of the medium-sized build-in safe.

Considering that yesterday evening John expressed his desire to find the kitchen and the bathroom, I decide to check the door first. Judging by the layout of the house, it's doubtful that it conceals the kitchen; so it is probably the bathroom, or, more likely, the loo.

Pulling the door open I discover a small loo; rather in time, I might add, because right at this moment my body decides to remind me that I'm a human, after all. So, after the inevitable short break to satisfy the demands of my flesh, I finally turn my attention to the opportunity of feeding my starving mind.

As I have already mentioned, there are three safes in this room; but, after short inspection it becomes apparent that only one of them deserves my attention at the moment. The built-in safe requires another pass card, and the safe on the left has a complicated laser-controlled three-digit lock. With two safes temporarily unavailable, it leaves me with only one option: the red one with the dangling keypad, which is obviously out of order. But at the same time, there's a post-it note on the door of the safe, which reads: '5841'; so the keypad should be functional to some extent.

Time to find out, where the catch is.

Dragging the three-legged stool over, I sit down in front of the safe and quickly key in the denoted combination. The digits light up on the screen and wink out a second later; surely enough, they are not the right ones, and I fetch the writing pad out of the backpack to note down the combination. Following a sudden hunch, I press the same four keys again and copy the new set of numbers. Repeating the process three times more, on the forth try I see the first wrong combination; so obviously each key, repeatedly pressed, can conjure up five different numbers.

It takes a few moments to cycle through four combinations again in order to reset the keys, and after that all that left is to complete my chart with the five remaining rows of five numbers.

I'm nearing the end of my task when I hear John's footsteps in the office. Considering that I skipped breakfast in favour of a new mystery, I'm most likely to hear a stern lecture quite soon, so I go for immediate distraction the second he steps into the workshop.

"Good morning, John," I say, keeping my eyes on the keypad. "The door that you are looking for is to the right of the built-in safe."

There's a small sigh of relief, which means that my suggestion is well-timed, and John bounds across the room, not failing to add that he'll see me in a couple of minutes. That's more than enough to finish the chart, and when John finally emerges from the loo, I'm immersed in studying the result of my work in order to prime the numbers.

My friend strides confidently to where I'm sitting, puts his hands on my shoulders and starts kneading my muscles lightly. "Any luck?"

John's gentle ministrations bring a sudden revelation that my shoulders have, in fact, become quite stiff. I close my eyes, tipping my head forward, and allow myself to enjoy my blogger's caring attention.

"Almost figured it out," I murmur, feeling the muscles in my shoulders start to loosen up and a welcoming pleasant warmth spreading through my body. "All I need is to find the right sequence, and after that we're off to find the kitchen."

John snorts and finishes the procedure by carefully rubbing my shoulders. "Very clever, Sherlock. But just to clarify: are you saying that you neglected your sleep in order to appease me?"

"More or less," I open my eyes and look at the chart again, immediately singling out the combination. "Alright, here we go."

I pinch the first four keys and, as I expected, the result immediately fades away.

John clears his throat. "Um, Sherlock..."

Silencing him with the impatient wave of my hand, I press the next four keys and the safe answers with a melodic 'ding'. Glancing over my shoulder, I lock gazes with John and he backs away, raising his hands in total surrender. Satisfied, I turn back and pull the door fully open, then reach inside and take the red magnetic card.

"The study," we say simultaneously, and I push myself up, turning around and making my way to the door.

John catches up with me a second later, carefully tugging the backpack out of my hands. I let him do it, but not before quickly pocketing the red card. My friend, upon noticing my actions, chuckles quietly and slings the strap of the backpack over his shoulder.

"Don't worry, Sherlock, I'm not going to rob you off your victory. It's simply a gesture of a proper squire, I guess," he remarks with a hint of irony, and I can't help but answer with a chuckle of my own.

"If you're going to admit that you're partial to my brother's idea of knighting me, dear sir, I will be forced to smite you at once," I utter in mock-threatening voice, causing John to falter in his stride due to a sudden attack of endearing giggles.

In such jolly mood, we traverse the mansion and finally stop in front of previously non-accessible door. Pulling the card out of my pocket, I slide it into a slot, and the red LED changes to green. Now all we need is to figure out the code.

"Did you notice the lighter keys, Sherlock?" John remarks thoughtfully, and I give a quick nod, already running the list of possible combinations in my head. Luckily for us, there are only three keys that appear to be frequently used: 3, 4 and 8. That gives us six combinations in total; quite an elementary task.

It's the fifth combination – 834, to be exact, that gets the door open, and we proceed into the new area with caution.

It's a small service room with two sets of stairs, leading into the basement and upstairs. There's another door ahead of us – open this time – and I can clearly see the corner of a table. It's a dining room, judging by the presence of a dumbwaiter to the right of said door.

I take a step forward, intending to inspect the newly discovered territory, but right at that moment John, emitting the triumphant cry, scales the stairs to the second floor, disappearing in a blink of an eye. Breakfast is clearly imminent, so I need to act quickly.

Unfortunately, I'm still not quick enough – John's demanding "Sherlock!" stops me at the threshold of the dining room, and I turn around to see my companion at the top of the first flight of the stairs, giving me a pointed look.

"I was just going..," I begin in placating tone, but John cuts me off.

"Breakfast," he says sternly, beckoning me towards him, and I have no choice but to submit, having previously on several occasions experienced the consequences of my own disobedience.

John leads me upstairs and parks me at the table near the window.

"Breakfast will be ready soon," John comments, busying himself with thorough inspection of cupboards. "And after that nothing's stopping you from solving the next puzzle."

"Fine," I answer simply. "But can you fetch me the writing pad first?"

There's an instant curious glance aimed in my direction; but nevertheless, a moment later the writing pad is placed in front of me.

"Thank you, John," I say, opening the pad and starting to draw a schematic map of the house. "I just want to keep track of unsolved puzzles, hence the necessity of the map."

"And what are the results so far?" John asks, keeping his eyes on the frying pan.

"Well, let's see," I mark all safes on my scheme and start encircling the solved ones. "The safe with T-shaped keyhole in the small sitting room, the fountain, the last panel in the museum and finally, two safes in the workshop. That makes five in total."

"So far," John comments, transferring the contents of the frying pan onto the plates. "And before you ask, the door in front of you is locked. It's the first thing I checked when I got here."

"Then we need the key," I comment, "which could be hidden in the dining room, by the way."

"As I said already, Sherlock, breakfast first, puzzles later," my friend says patiently, switching the boiling kettle off, pouring the steaming water into cups and then carrying my plate and cup to the table. "There you are, Sherlock. Have a nice breakfast."

"Not without your pleasant company, John," I contradict, and he laughs quietly, heading back to the stove for his own plate and teacup.

"Then I simply can't disappoint you, can I?" he seats across of me and gestures to my plate. "All of it, Sherlock, and then we'll continue exploring the house."

I nod and start eating, impatient to get up from the table as soon as possible. John frowns a couple of times at my obvious haste, but chooses to keep silent; my dear doctor knows me too well to grumble about the small details of his apparent victory.

* * *

**John's POV**

Sherlock hastily shoves the food into his mouth, chewing energetically and from time to time gulping tea from his cup. The doctor in me cringes in annoyance, but frankly, there's absolutely nothing I can do at the moment that isn't going to result in a loud argument and therefore rapid deterioration of Sherlock's mood.

So I keep silent and let my friend execute his meal in any way he deems necessary.

It takes less than three minutes for Sherlock to finish his breakfast, and after that he's up and across the kitchen in a flash, stopping to wait for me at the top of the stairs.

"Not so fast, Sherlock," I say, pointedly starting to gather up plates and cups. "I need to clean the table first".

The only indication of my companion's displeasure is a slight twitch of muscle under his right eye. Then he shrugs his shoulders and starts walking back to the table.

Halfway across the kitchen he stops, and I pause in my task, watching him out of the corner of my eye.

He hums and turns around, eyeing the dumbwaiter with obvious interest.

"The red light, John," he remarks thoughtfully.

"It's the dumbwaiter, Sherlock," I reply calmly.

"It's the safe house, John," he contradicts.

"Now you're sounding paranoid".

"No, just farsighted. Just carry on with the cleaning, John, I'll deal with it".

Taking him at his word, I busy myself with the task of washing the tableware and placing it back into cupboards. Speaking about cupboards – I haven't really had the time to take a good look around the kitchen until now, so I take time to correct this omission.

The kitchen and the service corridor are certainly different from the rest of the house: the walls are light green, the furniture is light brown, and the table at which we had breakfast really is a beautiful piece of art, with its wrought-iron legs and inlaid table top.

A huff of irritation on my right brings my attention back to Sherlock, and I turn my head to see my friend furiously assaulting "up" and "down" buttons in order to get the stubborn appliance to cooperate.

"Breaking it will definitely make the puzzle quite difficult to solve, Sherlock," I remark carefully. "You may want to calm down a bit".

Sherlock throws his arms in the air and whirls around to face me. "It's illogical, John. I can't figure it out, and it's absolutely frustrating!"

Uh-oh. Time for a swift distraction.

"And what's inside?"

Sherlock frowns, momentarily thrown off by my remark. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Inside the dumbwaiter. You were driving it up and down dozens of times now; surely you saw something already."

My friend's face regains its customary calm expression. "A pipe key, if you're so interested."

"A pipe key? What do we need a pipe key for?" I ask, perplexed.

"For some part of a puzzle, obviously," Sherlock turns around and continues pressing buttons. "If you're finished, John, would you mind checking the dining room? I'll try not to break it, don't worry," he adds, as if sensing my doubt.

I watch him for a few moments, and he takes a deep breath, stretching languidly. After that he returns to his task, but his movements are smooth and delicate now.

"That's better, Sherlock," I say approvingly, grabbing the backpack and heading for the stairs. "See you downstairs, then?"

My friend hums softly in reply and I descend to the ground floor, turning right and heading into the dining room.

It's quite big, and coloured in dark and light hues of blue, with a numerous paintings hanging on the wall to the left of me. There is a rectangular dining table in the centre of the room, with a dozen chairs around it and a green carpet underneath it; the upholstery on the chairs is also green and matches the carpet nicely. There are a couple of other tables in this room: an oval one in the far left corner, and a glass one near one of the windows. And, of course, there's a marble fireplace on my right with two vases and a clock on the mantelpiece. Classy and impressive, all that; but, to tell the truth, that table in the kitchen was far more comfy than this whole pompous room. No offense to the owner of the house, of course.

So, all in all, a nice dining room, except the fact that there is a red light under one of the paintings, which clearly indicates the location of the next puzzle.

"Good guess, John," Sherlock says right into my ear, causing me to yelp in surprise and stumble forward, almost tripping on the edge of the carpet. But Sherlock catches me easily and helps to regain my balance, giving a quiet snort of amusement in the process.

"Not funny, Sherlock," I declare, turning around to glare at him. "How long have you been standing here?"

"Long enough to agree with you about the kitchen," Sherlock says calmly and reaches out, tugging the backpack from my hands. "And it's easy – I can write a book about your facial expressions, John. As for our next task – you're adapting my methods without even noticing it."

I frown at him, and he rolls his eyes dramatically.

"Oh?" he enquires, and I raise my eyebrows.

"Do I, really?"

"Absolutely," he confirms. "Now, about that red light – shall we take a look?"

"Sure. The puzzle must be about the paintings, I think," I report, watching as Sherlock places the pipe key into the backpack. "The question is, do we have any clues?"

Sherlock immediately sticks his hand into our 'treasure bag' and grins broadly, pulling out a photograph. "As a matter of fact, we do. Take a look."

I peer at the picture he's holding out for me, recognising the setting immediately. Something is off, though, and I look more closely, trying to spot it. Sherlock patiently waits for me to speak, his eyes studying my face with obvious amusement.

Of course, how could I not notice it right away?

Sherlock nods approvingly, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. "The girl in the photo is Elizabeth, Duncan's daughter. The family ties are a bit strained right now, but..," he cuts himself short, and there's a flicker of sadness in his eyes. "Anyway, I think you will need a hand with that, won't you?"

"That would be marvellous, Sherlock," I say quietly, watching as my friend turns and takes a few steps in the direction of the first painting.

"Instructions, John?" Sherlock prompts, taking the painting off its hooks.

"Okay..," I take a moment to collect my thoughts. Now's certainly not the best time to talk about family problems; maybe later. "This one goes to the far right."

Sherlock relocates to the right, hangs the painting and turns to look at me.

I check the photo again. "Now the middle one to the very left."

Another series of precise movements and a pointed gaze.

"Almost done. Swap the last two."

Sherlock nods, grabs the picture to the right, slides to the other one, exchanges them and returns to complete the set.

There's a soft chime the moment Sherlock hangs the painting, the light on the wall to the right turns green and the frame above it slides up, showing a niche with a sheet of paper inside. My friend crosses the room and takes the paper, reading it swiftly.

"8 nanometres under the upper limit of a Buttercup colour," he mutters, folding the paper and pocketing it. "John, we need to go to the workshop."

"Why?" I ask, but he's already on the move, and I have no choice but to follow him. "Sherlock!"

"The laser safe, John," he explains briefly, breezing through the house. "The key is the correct wavelength. Upper limit of yellow colour minus 8. More or less."

"More or less?"

"Margin of error. 590 nm if the manufacturer is precise. Otherwise..."

"So that makes... 582?"

Sherlock glances at me briefly. "Good, John. Very good. Care to check?"

Right at this moment we step into the workshop and Sherlock gestures towards the safe, stopping near the doorway and leaning against the wall.

I move forward and start to press buttons until the display shows 582. Nothing happens, and I turn to look at my companion.

"Margin of error, John," he says calmly, crossing his arms on his chest. "Try going downwards from 590."

I readjust the setting, and follow Sherlock's advice. On 584 the light at the top of the safe turns green, and it unlocks, exposing two keys inside: a small gold one and a T-shaped one.

Sherlock is near me in instant, eyeing the keys intently. "Looks familiar."

"Which one?" I enquire, taking the keys and holding them out on open palm.

"This one," my friend's elegant fingers grasp the T-shaped key. "Do you remember where the matching safe is?"

I close my eyes, trying to remember the list of unsolved safes Sherlock made not too long ago. Two in this room, one in the museum, the fountain and...

Bingo!

"The small sitting room!" I announce in triumph, and Sherlock graces me with one of his warmest smiles and then winks at me conspiratorially.

"Not too far away, then," he drawls, and disappears in a flash.

"Typical," I mutter, then raise my voice. "Sherlock!"

"The small sitting room, John, hurry up!" he calls back, and I roll my eyes...

* * *

**Sherlock's POV**

Not waiting for John – he'll follow anyway – I rush through the house and skid to a halt in front of my destination. Despite the fact that there are three safes still remaining unsolved on this level, it somehow feels as if we're past the crucial point in our adventure. Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm aware that we haven't seen the whole house yet and frankly, I'm waiting for a wealth of intricate puzzles on the second floor. But I'm certain of one thing: Mycroft is going to lose.

"Well?" John's breathy voice brings me back to reality, and glance at him over my shoulder. His eyes are shining, there's a faint blush on his cheeks, and I take a few moments to savour this wonderful view. He catches my gaze and averts his eyes, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Um, Sherlock..."

"The safe. Yes," I turn away, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, and slide the key into the lock. John inhales deeply, and I turn the key.

The safe has three sections inside, and I step back to allow John a clear view of the middle one. My companion shakes his head emphatically and starts backing away with his arms raised.

"No way, Sherlock," he says firmly. "No way in hell. Think again."

"I clearly recall you saying something about the duty of a proper squire. Does it mean that you're about to cancel our agreement, dear sir?" I say, adapting an expression of wounded dignity.

John smothers a giggle behind his palm and unsuccessfully tries to remain stern-faced. "Sherlock..."

"It's a piston, so logically the only mechanism it can be fit into is a water pump. Water pumps are usually placed in the basements. Ergo, the hardship would not be long," I point out, and John gives a sigh of defeat, unzipping the backpack.

"I hope you're right, Sherlock," he says, noticing as I struggle to lift the heavy plunger. "I'm not so thrilled about getting a back strain because of this damn thing."

"I'm willing to help, John," I assure him, depositing my burden into the backpack and helping John to pull the straps onto his shoulders.

He grunts, staggers slightly and rights himself. "How exactly, Sherlock?"

"We can take turns carrying it."

John snorts and shakes his head, squaring his shoulders resolutely. "Lead the way, Sherlock, and try to make it quick."

I close my eyes for a second, pulling up a mental map of the known part of the house. Forward, right, forward, right again, forward, to the left of the fountain, across the main sitting room, through the study into the service corridor and down into the basement. The shortest path.

"Sherlock?" John asks hesitantly. "Are you alright?"

"I'm absolutely fine, John," I open my eyes and start moving. "Follow me, John, we'll take the shortcut."

"Whatever you say," John mutters, falling into step behind me. A relatively quick stroll through the house – and we're in the basement, stopping in front of a complicated light switch. John immediately shrugs the backpack off and lowers it onto the ground, then stretches his back in obvious relief. "That was really quick, Sherlock, thank you."

The part of the basement we're in is illuminated by the scarce light falling from upstairs, and I squint into the darkness, trying to judge the size of the said basement. Meanwhile my companion shuffles closer to the light switch and studies it with obvious interest.

"Feel free to try," I say, reaching out and squeezing his arm lightly. "It's OUR adventure, so let's keep a fair share between us."

John nods and, after a moment of hesitation starts turning all knobs so they would all point upwards. There are fourteen knobs in total, each connected to a system of jumper cables which, in turn, are connected to seven LEDs on the left. By the time John finally touches the last knob, five LEDs are already lit up. Three turns – and the lamp at the end of the corridor comes alive, flooding the basement with yellow light.

Sighing, John bends to retrieve the backpack, but I halt him by taking hold of his shoulders.

"Wait here, John," I command, pulling him upright. "I'll take a look and get back to you right away."

"There's no point, Sherlock," he objects, pulling away and reaching for the backpack again. He shoulders it with a grunt and glances at me. "I can bear it a little longer, don't worry."

I look into his eyes, and he winks at me, then turns his head towards the other end of the corridor. Taking the hint, I start walking, and he follows.

We discover the water pump in a small store room, and John immediately puts the missing piston into its place, visibly relieved. Nothing happens, though, and we both turn our attention to the reservoir on the right. There's a panel mounted on it, with three indicators representing three pistons' capacities: three, five and eight marks correspondingly. According to the indication, the piston on the right is full, and there are also a set of lines and buttons, connecting all three pistons with each other.

"I think, I know what we need to do here, Sherlock," John says with confidence. "The goal is to fill the middle piston, so it would contain half of all water. I can do that. I actually did one of these at school, so it should be easy."

I take a step to the right and lean against the wall. "I'm not stopping you."

John takes a deep breath and purses his lips, then reaches out, murmuring softly. "Alright, here goes... Large to medium," he presses the button, and indicators immediately display the change. "Medium to small... small to large... medium to small... large to medium and... medium to small. That's it."

There's a familiar chiming, and the water pump comes to life. John turns to look at me, smiling broadly, and a second later the lamp goes out.

"Oh, for God's sake!" my companion mutters, and it's quite surprising to hear a slight tremble in his voice. "Sherlock?"

"I'm here, John," I take a step forward, and John's hand fists itself into my sleeve. "I think the light switch has a timed reset. Are you okay?"

"Not really," John admits, and his other hand joins the first, curling around my arm a bit too tightly. "Past experiences. Sorry. I'm not so fond of the combination of darkness and running water."

"Afghanistan?" I ask softly, touching John's hands with the fingertips of my right hand.

John takes a shuddering breath and loosens his death grip on my arm. "You have no idea."

"You're right, I don't," I agree quietly. "But unfortunately, we need to turn the light back on. Are you up to this?"

John's grip tightens again. "Me?"

When we were younger, Mycroft once told me that the best way to overcome your fear is to face it. Can't say that it's one of my favourite strategies in life, but then again, John is the bravest person I've ever known in my life. And more importantly, he's my friend.

"Problem?" I ask, starting to stroke John's hand again. It seems to calm him, and he disentangles himself from me.

"Not at all," he answers calmly. "Wait here."

"I have a better idea, John," I object, reaching out and catching my friend by his jumper. "The next puzzle is just outside, at the end of the corridor. There are some boxes near the walls along the way, but I think I can orient myself."

"How exactly?" John enquires, taking small steps and towing me along.

"Red light," I say simply as we edge out of the storage room. "Now we need to split up."

"Sure," my companion waits for me to let him go, and then marches in the direction of the light switch. "Back in a second!"

"No worries," I answer, making my way to the next – and obviously the last – puzzle in the basement.

It's a metal plate with LEDs, and only one of them is lit – the one in the upper left corner.

So what's the logic?

The lamps are finally switched on, and by the time John is back with me, by trial and error I discover that LEDs are actually buttons, and I need to press them on the 'next nearest' principle. John manages to catch up with me quite quickly, and even corrects me a couple of times. Working together, we press all needed LEDs and the plate slides up, showing another niche – this time with a GPS key card and a brass key.

"Dining room," I announce, but John shakes his head vigorously and crosses his arms on his chest.

"No. Kitchen and lunch," he contradicts.

"John..."

"Sherlock."

No-win situation all over again.

"Fine. But right after that we'll go to the dining room."

"Absolutely. But now I need your help with those boxes from the small sitting room."

"Whatever," I grumble, and John flashes me his trademark grin.

"No need to be so cross, Sherlock," he says encouragingly. "Take a good look outside. Even if we manage to find the front door key, we're still stuck here for the entire week."

"What do you mean?" I look at him, frowning slightly.

"When Mycroft says that it's going to be a week, it's REALLY going to be a week. We're on an island, Sherlock; a private island, for that matter. So slow down and enjoy your unplanned vacation, my dear friend."

Taken by surprise, I desperately search for something to say, and then the words just tumble out. "How can you know that?"

"I told you yesterday that I found some interesting books in the library. There were newspapers, too. Some articles about Duncan Adams buying an island for his latest entertaining project. There's no mention in the papers about the location, but logically..."

"I get the picture, thank you," I interrupt impatiently. "So, the boxes in the hall?"

"If you would be so kind," John says, turning around and starting to walk along the corridor. "I'll be in the kitchen."

* * *

**John's POV**

I can tell that Sherlock is not at all happy with my latest announcement, but since we can do absolutely nothing about it, he has no other choice but to accept the current state of affairs.

Doesn't mean he won't continue to grumble about it, though.

I climb two sets of stairs towards the kitchen and busy myself with preparing lunch while waiting for Sherlock to appear with boxes from the small sitting room.

It takes two trips for my companion to transfer all necessary stuff into the kitchen, and after that he wanders over to the table, taking a seat and placing his elbows on the tabletop.

"What are we having, John?" he asks, closing his eyes and resting his chin on his clasped hands.

"Toad in the hole," I say, placing a roasting tin into the oven. "Should be ready in half an hour."

Sherlock immediately perks up. "Really? If so, I can..."

"No, Sherlock, you can't," I say firmly. "In fact, we're done with puzzle-hunting for today. Let's find the bedrooms after lunch and have a quiet afternoon in the library."

"Boring," my friend replies listlessly. "But if you insist..."

"Yes, I do."

"Fine. Lunch, bedrooms, boring afternoon. Wonderful."

"If you're so irked..."

"I'm not."

"Good."

So we eat lunch in complete silence, then I clean up and we go to the dining room. Of course the brass key appears to be fitting into the keyhole of the door at the far end of the room, and behind it finally are the main stairs to the second floor.

A bit of exploration follows after that; we unlatch the door to the hall on the ground floor, and the door to the kitchen on the second floor. Sherlock finishes his map of the ground floor and starts another while we acquainting ourselves with the whole bunch of new rooms. Two locked rooms in the left corridor, a loo and a 'games' room with a billiard table and a game-playing machine. Actually, make that three locked rooms; there is another locked door in the 'games' room.

As for the right corridor: the dressing room with our suitcases in it (finally!) and two bedrooms – a blue and a yellow one.

Oh, and we need to solve another puzzle after all, because the door to the yellow room is blocked with rays of laser. We have no clue for the keypad, but the pipe key fit with the head of the bolt holding the cover of the keypad closed. So we unscrew it, and find four colour wires inside. Sherlock immediately notices that wires are overlapped and forming the numbers 2, 4, 9 and 3, with 2 on top and 3 on the bottom. Sherlock presses the correct sequence, and the laser switches off.

That's all I have to say about our second day in the Safe House, except maybe that Sherlock entertained himself with childish sulk in the main sitting room for the rest of the day, and I enjoyed a hot bath and an interesting book I saved for myself yesterday.

Two days down, five to go. Let's hope that we both remain sane, safe and sound by the end of the week.


	11. The Safe House Day Three

**Chapter Eleven, in which Sherlock experiments and John gets an upper hand**

**John's POV**

When I open my eyes the next morning, I'm greeted with a sight of the overcast sky, and there's a steady beat of raindrops pattering against the window of my recently discovered bedroom. Speaking of which – it feels bloody good to wake up in a proper bed, and I take some time to enjoy the comfort, stretching my body and kneading the muscles in my shoulders – that damn plunger yesterday weighted a ton and, although chasing criminals across the streets of London helps me to stay physically fit, carrying heavy parts of water pump around the house are totally another matter.

It takes me about five minutes before the pain changes into a dull ache, and after that I sit up, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and lowering them onto the floor. The bed is in less than a metre from the window, so my position gives me an opportunity to see palm trees being bowed down by the strong wind. The newspaper hasn't stated the whereabouts of Adams' private island, but my guess is the tropical zone. And that means either this storm will last several days, or it can end in a couple of hours. Second option preferred, of course; otherwise returning to London can be a bit problematic. After Sherlock's escapade Mycroft clearly won't be rushing to help us with getting back to London, so this storm can be the perfect excuse to prolong our exile here. In that case, with the incessant rain finding a front door key isn't going to be much of an advantage. And let's not forget that with all puzzles solved, Sherlock will be bored out of his skull, which always means trouble.

So let's hope the rain won't last for long, and Mycroft will be generous enough to forgive Sherlock once again. Actually, while I'm not so sure about the first, the last is certain – I saw it in Mycroft's eyes back at Baker Street when he announced our departure.

Speaking of that episode: I didn't bother to analyse it back then, but something was clearly wrong with that picture. It's not like Sherlock to admit his defeat in front of his brother so calmly; his standard reaction is to match every Mycroft's word with an objection. And that bit with Mycroft calling Sherlock 'Sherringford'… It looked as if somebody had flipped a switch, and my friend promptly did an about-turn…

Wait a minute, what if it WAS a signal?

What if Mycroft wasn't angry at all? What if behind the furious facade was… fear?

Mycroft was adamant to send me away with Sherlock; if he was really angry, he would've separated us – just to irritate his younger brother a bit more. So the situation obviously was critical, and Mycroft needed to be sure Sherlock was safe with me.

Which, in turn, means that our silly game had turned into a serious business.

All because of a few boxes of crisps.

Well, truth to be told, I'm not even sure it was the crisps. I mean, I saw Sherlock opening one and making a joke about Mycroft not sticking to his diet… But I haven't actually seen the crisps – Sherlock mentioned them, and I just took his word for it.

What if those boxes appeared in our flat according to some plan? Could it be that Holmes brothers suddenly decided on joint action?

Too many confusing questions, and there's only one person who supposedly has all the answers. And that means I should hurry with the breakfast, before said person has a chance to rush into solving the next puzzle (if he hasn't already, of course).

With that thought I leave the comfort of my bed and go into the bathroom to perform my usual morning ritual. Finding our suitcases yesterday was the main discovery (for me, anyway), because that meant having my toilet bag again, and therefore being able to enjoy the luxury of shaving.

Right in the middle of said process the lights in the bathroom suddenly go out for a second or two; then they flicker for a moment and turn on again. Power glitch due to a storm, maybe? Or, God forbid, it's Sherlock's attempt to do something stupid?

Well, whatever the cause, guess I need to speed up a little. It's a good thing I haven't cut myself when the lights went off, so I quickly finish shaving, go back to my suitcase, put on some fresh clothes, then walk to the door, pull it open…

And barely have time to stop myself from walking into a grid of laser rays.

Great. Just great. But entirely logical. If you build a house with electronic locks installed, you should be prepared that any power glitch will reset them.

"Sherlock!" I call out, praying that he hadn't gone on a puzzle hunt into the far corner of the house. "Sherlock, small problem here. I could use your help with that."

I get no answer, so obviously it's the worst scenario – he already wandered off and doesn't hear me.

Which means I'm on my own, and I need to find another way out of this room, most definitely an unusual one.

Considering that I'm on the second floor and this room has windows overlooking the winter garden - one in the room, and the other in the bathroom, - it's just a question of choice. The bathroom window is too small, so it's no go, and that leaves me with only one option – I need to find a rope and climb out of the other one.

Regrettably, I hadn't packed a rope while I was getting ready for our trip (better make a note of that for the next time), so I need to find a substitute for it. Good thing I have some experience in this area; but you'd better not ask. Seriously, don't. All I can say is the bedclothes are the best choice – quality ones, of course (but not silk, preferably), and that's all you need to know.

The first logical decision is to strip the bed, and I almost obey this impulse, but a moment later my gaze falls on the chest of drawers to the right of the door. In houses like this, such chests of drawers usually exist for storing the extra sets of bedclothes and underwear; let's hope this one is not an exception.

Fortunately for me, it's not: the top drawer greets me with a wonderful view of neatly folded bedclothes. Four piles of them, to be exact, and I ruin this perfection without any remorse. After all, Mycroft should have predicted that locking two men like us in this bloody puzzle house is fraught with consequences.

Four bed sheets should do the trick; all I have to do now is tie them together into a rope, and hope that my knots are still as reliable as ever.

The bed looks heavy enough to tie my improvised rope around its leg; but, just to be sure, I decide to move the bed closer to the window. However, there is one problem: a small table which I need to move aside for my plan to work. Leaving my rope near the bed, I turn around and take a step towards the table…

Wait a minute, what's this? And how come I didn't notice it before?

Moving closer to the table, I examine another safe – a metal box with the keypad. It is connected by wire to a wall outlet. The box is now open; the power glitch obviously reset the mechanism, or maybe it was designed that way – to open only when the power was switched off.

Whatever the principle is, it doesn't really matter now: the safe is open, and I have another two clues in my possession – a page with billiard rules and another magnetic card.

Well, if THIS isn't qualifies as a strategic advantage, I don't know what is.

Pocketing the newly found items, I drag the table away from the window, and then pull the bed closer to the window. There's a carpet under the bed, which is also weighted down by two bedside tables. Moving the bed would also entail dragging the carpet along, so obviously I need to get rid of those bedside tables first. This small operation takes about a minute, and then I spend another two pulling the bed to the window.

Now comes the next stage of my plan: tying the rope and climbing out of the window. Adding the extra weight of three tables to the bed, I tie the knot and open the window.

Despite my fears, the rope serves its purpose without any problem, and soon I find myself standing in the winter garden. It's time to decide what I should do next, and I start to turn around when the sound of clapping forces me to almost jump in surprise.

Swearing under my breath, I whirl towards the sound… only to see my crazy companion grinning at me from the doorway which leads into the main hall. His amusement, however, doesn't last long: as soon as he sees my face, his grin disappears and he takes a step back.

"John," he says calmly, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "I can explain everything."

"Oh, I don't doubt it, Sherlock," I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, desperately trying not to give in to a strong urge to throttle him. Of course he can explain – he's the one who caused the power glitch, after all; there can be no doubt about that.

Adept at reading my expression, Sherlock meanwhile quite correctly deduces that his explanation, however plausible, is not going to be enough. He said once that I tend to be unreasonable due to the fact of my emotions prevailing over my logic, and added also that at such times I'm impossible to communicate with, because I resort to "a barbaric way of dealing with the situation". Usually it involved me smashing his chemical equipment to pieces or throwing his experiments out of the kitchen window, but there was also a couple of occasions when I couldn't stop myself from punching him. Not strongly enough to inflict any real damage, of course: I'm a medic, after all, and it's my duty to heal, not to hurt, but, as the saying goes, there are exceptions to every rule.

Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh, right, me being unreasonable and etcetera. Looks like now is one of those occasions, and Sherlock, instantly realising to what outcome it's going to lead, takes another step back, continuing to speak in a calming, placating tone.

"I needed to test my theory, John," he explains, glancing quickly over his shoulder in order to calculate the fastest way for his retreat. He knows I'm mad at him, and he knows that whatever the reason, it's better to let me chill out and wait until I would seek him out and allow him to explain everything.

Sherlock is ready to bolt any second, so who am I to deny him this possibility?

"Aren't you always?" I ask simply, crossing my arms on my chest and shifting from foot to foot.

My friend tenses visibly, but remains standing near the door. "There was a chance that if the power is switched off, the remaining electronic locks would open, making it easier for us to get the key to the front door."

He obviously doesn't feel threatened enough, so in order to provoke him, I start to untie one of the bed sheets from my rope. "Did you really think it's going to be that easy, Sherlock?" the knot loosens, and I disentangle the sheet. "It's Mycroft's plan, after all; you got to give him some credit."

"I know what my brother is capable of, John," Sherlock retorts, taking another step back. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like, Sherlock?" I answer his question with mine, and turn around, holding the sheet in both hands.

"Quite disturbing, actually," my friend replies before making a mad dash towards the door to the main staircase. He obviously expects me to chase him, and I make a half-hearted attempt at following him into the main hall. Sherlock proceeds to slam the door shut right in front of my nose, causing me to laugh quietly.

If you want to play hide-and-seek, my friend, I would be happy to indulge you. After all, the clues are safely stored in my pocket, and when you get tired of hiding, I would be there to offer you a proper remedy for your boredom…

* * *

**Sherlock's POV**

John always likes to point out that a heartfelt admission is good for one's soul, so I guess it's time for me to try one. Technically, I'm supposed to do this in John's presence, but after everything that happened a few moments ago, it is hardly possible – for now, at least. Besides, when we were talking in the winter garden, John's behaviour clearly indicated that he understood why I did what I did. Threatening me was just a part of our well-oiled routine. He never stops his attempts to 'civilise' me, and I, in turn, do my best to resist that.

Anyway, I think I should go back to the heartfelt admission, shouldn't I? When John told me yesterday about us being on the island, it meant only one thing – Mycroft's plan could be officially labelled as the worst case scenario, and we, as a result of his actions, were stranded in this house for an undetermined period of time. Adding to that, the puzzles and mysteries that looked very promising at first, soon became quite boring – with the exception of one or two which were really interesting, but, as the saying goes, exceptions always confirm the rule.

That's why I needed to conduct my experiment – otherwise the level of my boredom would've become life-threatening. Unfortunately, my experiment failed to give me all expected results – on the contrary, I was forced to reopen some doors again. Needless to say, the remaining closed doors stayed as they were much to my disappointment.

There was, however, one positive result – the laser rays barring the door to John's new room were reactivated. Of course, for an ordinary person this fact may not seem positive, but for me it provided a perfect opportunity to experiment. That's why I changed my initial decision to disable the lasers. I was curious about which way John would choose to deal with this problem. And he didn't disappoint me – neither with his truly elegant solution to the problem nor with his reaction afterwards.

So now we're separated by a set of doors, which I took the trouble to lock earlier, and I have plenty of time to enjoy my solitude. I left the box with some food in the small sitting room for John, so he should be okay for the time being.

Speaking of which – it's time for me to take care of that rope in John's room. I seriously doubt that he would use it to climb back, but one can never be too certain.

Scaling the stairs quickly, I head towards my destination and disable the laser grid. Suddenly curious, I cross the threshold and look around. John was thorough in planning his escape – his bed is moved to the window and the improvised rope is tied to its leg. It takes me about five minutes to untangle the knot – John turned to be an expert in tying it, - and I drag the rope into the room.

Placing it on the bed, I turn to leave – and that's when I notice it: another safe, already open.

That's why John let me escape so easily: he already had an ace up his sleeve.

But it's not going to be for long, my friend – the night is coming, and I still have most of the keys…


	12. The Safe House Day Three (evening)

**Chapter Twelve, in which a strange dinner occurs and John is NOT amused**

**Sherlock's POV**

Contrary to everyone's opinion in general and John's in particular, there are quite a few things that I find really irritating; but these few things, in my opinion, certainly rank as the highest.

Speaking of rank: if somebody asked me to determine the most irritating thing right now (which is highly unlikely, considering that I'm sitting alone in the kitchen), I would've given an answer without any delay.

Waiting. The worst thing that can happen to a man with an extremely active mind and a tendency to get restless when there appears to be nothing to occupy said mind with.

Of course I did everything short of trying to take this annoying house to pieces to quench my constant thirst for activity. There were still a few locked rooms, and I tried to fiddle with the couple of standard locks only to find out that they were not so standard after all. Needless to say, not having my useful toolkit with me (it disappeared from my suitcase, courtesy of Mycroft's intervention, no doubt) didn't help matters at all, but at least I've tried.

Disappointed with my lack of progress, I turned to the one entertainment I had found during my exploration of the second floor – the billiards table in the games room. I can't say that this game is my favourite, but with the alternative of reading some boring and uninformative books my choice was evident.

I learned to play billiards for a case, and put the information about the rules and everything in the furthest room in my mind palace as soon as aforementioned case was finished. There were only two occasions up till now when I had to retrieve that information: first was for John, when he invited me to some club to celebrate the ending of a particularly interesting and complicated case, and the second – to get the better of my dearest brother after he tried to play me for a fool in front of his high-ranking associates. He never could resist a chance to beat me, whatever the competition was, and seeing the baffled expression on his face when he realised that he lost the game was priceless. Oh, perhaps I should add that the aforementioned event took place just before our sudden departure to this island and, as you can probably guess, happened to be the exact reason for said departure.

Note to self: remember to tell John that Sherringford is NOT my middle name. Sure, I have one (two, actually, to be exact), but they are certainly not so exotic. On the contrary, they are too ordinary to mention, so I won't bother you with this irrelevant information.

As for Sherringford, I don't really have much to say on that matter; just that it came into life after one case during which my life was in real danger. The situation was so serious that Mycroft had to wade in, and he found that experience amusing enough to code-name it. Since that moment, it had become his signal for me that the situation was really dangerous, and he never hesitated to use it when he deemed it necessary. Like this time, for example. Not sure it was really necessary, though, but if my brother makes a decision, any argument becomes absolutely pointless.

Which is why for now I'd better stop thinking and proceed to the next stage of my plan, namely explaining my false middle name to John. Preferably keeping some distance between us, because I'm not so sure he had calmed down after my last experiment. John tends to be overly emotional at times, which makes reasoning with him quite difficult, if not totally impossible task. Which is why I need to find a way to keep some distance between us and to face him at the same time. Not so difficult task, if you think about it; all I need to do is walk back to the games room, open one of the windows into the winter garden and call John. Worth a try, anyway.

Five minutes later I lean out of the window, surveying the empty room beneath, and clear my throat. Time to play my round of the game.

"John!" I call out loudly. "John, I realise you may still be angry with me, but I need to tell you something. It's important."

At first, he doesn't answer, and, slightly disappointed, I prepare to step away from the window. But a moment later there's a sound of footsteps, and my friend walks into the winter garden from the main hall and stops near the fountain. Pointedly refusing to look at me, he sits down on the edge of its marble bowl and nods his head, signalling his readiness to listen.

I clear my throat again. "John, I… There's something I need to tell you…"

He interrupts me with a sudden wave of his hand and raises his head, subjecting me to his patented accessing stare. Usually it's followed by a very specific question, and I have no doubt this time isn't going to be an exception.

Ah, here it goes: small creases on his forehead and pursed lips. Telltale signs of the main event.

"Have you eaten since our last conversation, Sherlock?" John's "I'm the doctor, so you'd better tell the truth" mode is full-on, and it's time for me to play my part.

"You didn't provide me with your usual nagging about it, so don't be surprised if I say I haven't," I reply while climbing onto the windowsill and making myself comfortable. "Have you, by the way?"

John rolls his eyes and fishes a pack of crackers out of his pocket. "What do you think?"

"Knowing you – two times at least," I comment lazily, toying with a button on my suit jacket. "You are a man of habit, John, so I made sure to leave enough food in those boxes in the hall. Hope I got it right."

"Absolutely," he breaks the pack open and pops one cracker in his mouth. "I was about to start preparing dinner when you called me here. Care to join me?"

Forgetting for a moment about the separating us height, I habitually raise my eyebrows. "Nice try, John, but did you really think that it would be so easy?"

John furrows his eyebrows in obvious confusion. "What are you talking about, Sherlock?"

"Joining you for dinner requires me to open the door. Certainly not the wisest decision right now," I comment, realising with surprise that mention of meal brings forth strange sensation in my stomach. Its identification takes me a few seconds, and then it finally dawns: all that mindless wandering around the house made me irritatingly hungry. And it IS irritating, because in my life before John Watson I've never paid attention to the needs of my physical body. He changed that, changed me in some ways, although I'm still not sure if I should accept those changes. And he is clever: he never insists, he always just suggests, but those suggestions are extremely hard to ignore. Speaking of which…

"Sherlock!" John raises his voice to attract my attention. "Are you listening to me, or should I just bloody leave you alone with your thoughts and come back later?"

Sounds too harsh – I managed to piss him off. Not good at all. Time for swift and effective measures.

"Sorry, John, just trying to figure out what I would want for dinner," I reply nonchalantly.

"Really?" he's skeptic, and I can understand that: usually I don't tend to be cooperative when it comes to food topics. "Any results?"

"Tea and sandwiches would suffice," as I suspected, he pulls a face. "I'm serious, John. Lack of challenge isn't exactly the best stimuli. Adding digestion wouldn't help matters."

"Fine," he consents. "But on one condition: I need to make sure you've eaten, so I'm going to keep you company down here."

Oh. So he didn't mean…

"Are you saying you want me to have dinner on this windowsill?" I inquire, tilting my head to the side.

"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," John chuckles and gets up, stretching his body with obvious relief. "How much time do you need to prepare your sandwiches?"

Turning away from John, I get down from the windowsill, and then lean out of the window again. "Fifteen minutes. Your dinner?"

"A bit longer. So how about meeting here in half an hour?" John suggests, the thoughtful expression on his face speaking volumes. He hasn't decided what he wants for dinner yet, but, considering that his choices are limited, half an hour is more than enough for his cooking efforts.

"Take as long as you need, John, although I'm sure you won't need more that twenty minutes," I comment, and he shakes his head, smirking. "I'm serious, John, you tend to underestimate yourself."

"I'm not going to argue with you, Sherlock," my friend replies firmly, and turns towards the main hall. "See you soon!"

"Of course, John," I call out, taking my own leave in the direction of the kitchen. I have a plan, after all, and it's time to set it in motion…

* * *

**John's POV**

Of course he is right, but isn't he always? Well, on the other hand, he left those boxes with food for me, so he probably knows what I'm going to have. Probably, because Sherlock doesn't like to concern himself with such 'irrelevancies', as he prefers to call them.

All right, John, back on track. Dinner, remember? Sherlock said he's going to have tea and sandwiches; as his friend, I'm compelled to keep him company even in that.

Ten minutes later I'm back in the winter garden, arranging my dinner on the chair which I dragged out of the museum. Sherlock is back too, sitting on the same windowsill and observing me with his usual deceptively disinterested expression.

"Not a word, Sherlock," I warn him, sitting down on the edge of the fountain again. "Because I know what are you thinking right now, and no, my reason is absolutely different."

My friend emits a quiet chuckle and takes a sip of his tea. "Very amusing, John, but you obviously misread my signals. Commenting on your food choices was the last thing on my mind, simply because I have more pressing matters to discuss with you."

"I have no doubt about that, Sherlock, but can we at least finish our dinner first?" I ask, reaching out for my own cup of tea. "Provided that it won't be too much of a distraction for you, of course."

Without saying a word, Sherlock takes a sandwich and proceeds to eat it – slowly and methodically, I might add. Sometimes he tends to act like a child, and this time is certainly not an exception. Although I'm pretty sure he doesn't do it on purpose: it's just his way of dealing with bleak and boring day-to-day life. Who am I to deny him that?

Looking at him with my left eyebrow raised, I reach toward my plate. Challenge announced and accepted, we take time devouring our frugal meal.

Sherlock finishes first and waits for me, tapping his fingers on the window frame thoughtfully. Judging by his distant expression, the stuff that he's about to share with me is a big one, and I can't help but wonder if this has something to do with his strange middle name.

Taking care of my last sandwich and washing it down with the last mouthful of tea, I move the empty plate with cup down on the floor and re-deploy to the now vacant chair.

"My middle name isn't Sherringford," my friend begins and then pauses, waiting for my reaction. I do my best to remain impassive, and he tilts his head to the right. "You don't look surprised, so you obviously had some thoughts on that matter already."

"It's hard not to, Sherlock, considering that you had most of the fun the last two days," I comment. "And Mycroft was too generous with his decision of sending us here together. If he really wanted to reprimand you, he would've separated us."

Sherlock turns on the windowsill so he's now facing the winter garden, and, lowering his legs, starts swinging them back and forth slightly. "Impressive, John. Anything else?"

"Nothing, I'm afraid. I was hoping you'd tell me the rest," I prompt carefully, and, judging by the sudden spark in his eyes, my choice of approach is the right one.

"Smart move, Doctor Watson," my companion praises, mischievous smile lighting up his face. "Good to know you've learned something from me. As for your version: yes, my brother sent us here in order to protect me. Your presence was paramount, of course."

"But why lock us up? I mean, we're on a private island, for God's sake! Who's going to attack us here?" too emotional, I guess, but Mycroft's bloody power complex tends to really get on my nerves sometimes.

"No idea, John," Sherlock admits honestly. "But if Mycroft deemed it necessary, then the whole business with treaty must have taken an unexpected turn. Don't ask about the details, though: it's classified."

"Since when Mycroft's interdiction started to mean anything to you?" I reply, trying to provoke him. Things are starting to get serious, and it's time to lighten the mood.

"It still doesn't, but protecting you does," my flatmate replies, ignoring my attempts. "Sherringford is a code name for dangerous situations, John."

"I already figured that much, Sherlock," I respond. "The question is, why are you protecting me when it's you who is in danger?"

"Because I'll be lost without my blogger," Sherlock quirks up his eyebrow. "Speaking of which: I found some interesting documents in the library, and I think you should take a look at them. They are in the folder near the safe. Feel free to amuse yourself."

"A light reading before sleep, Sherlock?" I chuckle, simultaneously trying to stifle a yawn. "Thanks for your kind offer, but I don't think it would be necessary. How about looking them though together tomorrow?"

I'm starting to feel a bit drowsy, which is strange, because apart from my trick with climbing out of the window, this day was uneventful. I'm not tired at all, so why…

Wait a minute. When I asked Sherlock about his dinner, he told me about sandwiches. And I followed him even in that.

What if he planned everything in advance?

Sherlock suddenly locks his eyes with mine and his lips curl up into a devilish smirk. "I was wondering how long would it take for you to clue in. Sorry, John, but our little adventure is starting to get tedious, I need to spice it up a bit."

Doing my best not to fall asleep in this chair, I raise my chin defiantly. "Oh, and you decided that drugging me would be amusing. If that's your idea of protection, it really sucks, Sherlock."

In one smooth move, my traitorous flatmate disappears from my view, calling out lazily: "Get to the sofa while you can, John, and good night".

But his generous advice comes a bit late, and all I manage before sleep claims me is to slide out of the chair onto the floor and curl up, making myself as comfortable as possible.

Damn you and your hunger for an experiment, Sherlock Holmes! And don't think even for one second that I'm not going to get even with you tomorrow…


End file.
